


The Sorcerer's Apprentice: Year One

by Laura JV (laurajv)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-03-28
Updated: 2002-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27426406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurajv/pseuds/Laura%20JV
Summary: Harry becomes Snape's apprentice. Snark ensues.
Comments: 23
Kudos: 11





	1. Snape Takes an Apprentice

**Author's Note:**

> I never finished later Years, and it is unlikely that I ever will. 
> 
> This is the only complete story of the series, and was written before _The Order of the Phoenix_ came out, so does not comply with any HP canon post- _Goblet of Fire_.
> 
> Thanks owed to Fox, Kass Rachel, Mary Ellen, Beth, Roman, Predatrix, Shawn, Regsnake, and everyone else who has been there along the way.
> 
> Extra-special thanks to Mandragora, who graciously agreed to check me over for British language and culture; to Debra Fran Baker, for careful and intelligent midwifing; to Bryan, for sound and thoughtful beta; to Nat, for sanity-checking.
> 
> Blame for parts of this story apportioned to: Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin and his translator M.F.K. Fisher, Anthony Bourdain, Dorothy Canfield, William Blake, the Clash, Frank Bidart, David Bowie, Jim Crace, and L. Frank Baum.

"Come in," I said, and Harry Potter walked into my office. I put down my quill and   
frowned at him. "What is it, Mr. Potter?"

"May I sit down?"

I gestured at the empty chair in front of my desk, and he took it.

"Now, what is it?" I asked again.

"You know Hermione's going to university."

I raised my eyebrows. "Miss Granger had best do well intellectually; she has   
little else to recommend her."

He glared at me, and I picked up my quill again. "If that is all--"

"I want to ask you--"

I looked at him. The boy was blushing. "Ask me what?"

He raised his chin. "I already spoke to Professor Dumbledore about this. So don't   
tell me to go away."

"About what, Mr. Potter?"

"If you'll take me as apprentice." He was trembling slightly as he said it.

Well. I hadn't been expecting that.

There are two choices for the witch or wizard who wishes further education after   
Hogwarts: university, or apprenticeship. These days, most choose university, where   
they form teaching partnerships in the last two years; those who apprentice tend   
to do so outside of educational institutions. At the end of last year, Pansy   
Parkinson had asked me to provide her a list of Potions Masters willing to take   
apprentices; I knew she had spent the summer and winter holidays visiting them.

There hadn't been an apprentice-resident at Hogwarts since Minerva McGonagall,   
twenty-five years ago.

It is a demanding discipline, for both apprentice and master. I could not imagine   
what on earth possessed the boy.

I set down my quill.

"You would ask this of me?"

He nodded.

"We have always despised each other."

His lips thinned. "You're the best teacher for what I want to do."

"Which is?"

"Defence Against--"

I held up my hand. "Second best, apparently. Dumbledore refused you, then."

"No!" He jumped out of his chair. "N-no. I asked him if--if he thought you'd say   
yes."

I folded my hands. "Sit down, Mr. Potter." He sat. "This is a very serious   
request. You would be with me nearly full-time for not less than five years. You   
would be required--"

"I know. I know all that."

I tapped my finger sharply on the desk. "Five points from Gryffindor for   
interrupting." He subsided. "You say you know. Very well. If you are serious, Mr.   
Potter, we will seal this with magical contract. If you are serious, you will, by   
your graduation date, have ended any romantic liaisons you may be engaged in, and   
you will have registered a formal contract request with the Ministry of Magic,   
with the headmaster, and with the Ministry of Education." I paused, and he   
swallowed and nodded at me. "If you do not do this, Mr. Potter, as I fully expect   
you will not, you and I will, I hope, never meet again once you leave Hogwarts."

He stood. "I'm serious. Sir. I'll be in touch."

And he walked out of my office.

* * *

He took to watching me in class, lower lip half-bitten. I ignored it; he was, at   
least, paying attention, which was more than I could normally say for him. The   
focus showed up in his work, fortunately for him; he'd no head for Potions and   
probably never would, but he would scrape a respectable mark out of it for the   
first time in seven years--if he didn't completely foul up the final exam.

Two weeks before the end of term, Albus called me to his office and handed me a   
copy of Harry Potter's Request for Magical Apprenticeship, stamped and approved by   
the Ministries of Magic and Education. By God, the boy'd been serious. I frowned   
at Albus, who smiled and patted my shoulder. "I know you'll do right by him,   
Severus."

"I'm not fond of the boy, Headmaster. I may do him more harm than good."

In response, he offered me something called a "Jaffa cake". As long as I live, I   
shall never understand the man.

I retreated to my office, where I spent a few hours familiarizing myself with   
Potter's academic record. Good at Charms, Transfiguration, Care of Magical   
Creatures, Defence Against the Dark Arts. Took Arithmancy in his fifth and sixth   
year, but not this one. Good marks in Divination, but if there is one thing   
Minerva and I agree on in this world, it is that Sybil Trelawney would be better   
off if someone would drown her in the lake. Certainly I know better than to trust   
her opinion on a student.

I closed the records and leaned my head on my hands, then picked up the scroll   
that held Potter's request. Speaking of Minerva--she was his Head of House. I   
should speak to her; perhaps she could force some sense into the boy, since he   
apparently had none native to him, and Albus seemed disinclined.

At supper, I sat down next to her and handed her the scroll. She unrolled it,   
then murmured "Come to my rooms after curfew." 

Harry Potter was watching me. I am certain he wondered if I was going to formally   
accept his request. I met his eyes, but gave him no sign.

Good God, if the boy was my apprentice, I would have to put up with Sirius Black,   
which could very well result in murder.

I found Minerva in her sitting room later that evening, and she smiled at me.   
"Sit down. So Harry wants to be your apprentice. Tea?"

"Thank you. Minerva, I cannot believe that he's serious about this."

"He certainly seems to be." She held out the cup of tea and I took it, the china   
frail against my hand.

"He's barely been outside of Hogwarts. He shouldn't spend his life here." I   
stirred the tea. "And to be *my* apprentice--he has always hated me, and I him."

"I don't believe that, you know," she said. "Severus, *do* sit down."

I sat. "Hrr. I spoke the truth."

"If you truly hated him, you would have told him no already." I did not respond,   
and Minerva sighed and continued. "To be honest, I thought Draco Malfoy would have   
asked you."

I took a sip of tea. "Apprentices are rare enough; two requests in one year would   
be quite extraordinary."

"I suppose you're right."

And then there was the other reason young Malfoy would never be my apprentice.   
"Besides, he blames me for his father's death. Quite rightly, of course, since I   
strangled the man with my bare hands."

Minerva blanched, and I raised my eyebrows. "Didn't you know? Justified, of   
course, but I did kill him." I remembered the pain; I remembered spitting words   
at Lucius as Cruciatus eased enough for me to draw breath. Slave I called him,   
you blind fool, you *slave*--and he struck again, as Draco cried out. 

*"Father! Father, please!"*

I had taken the instant of distraction that provided to bear Lucius to the ground,   
my hands about his throat, his pulse beating wildly against my palms.

He had died there, flesh to flesh, while Draco scrabbled desperately at me, trying   
to pull me off.

Malfoy *fils* has not his father's lust for blood or power, thank heaven. He'll   
make no Dark wizard of himself, but he will be forever scarred in body and mind by   
that battle.

"Does Harry know?" she asked, her lips barely moving.

"Yes," I said. "Yes. He was there." He'd stunned Draco and pulled me off of the   
body, handed me my wand, and turned to throw Cruciatus over his shoulder at   
Voldemort. It hadn't succeeded, but it had blocked a Killing Curse.

A surprisingly bloody-minded boy, Harry Potter. He should have been a Slytherin.   
I wonder if I'd've hated him so much if he had been.

Quite possibly.

Minerva poured another cup of tea for herself, her hands trembling. "Why did--no,   
don't answer."

I set my cup on the arm of the chair. "Understand that very few wizards defend   
against the purely physical attack. Understand that Lucius Malfoy was a man   
without conscience, who would have killed students under my care." She looked away   
from me, and I leaned forward. "Understand, Minerva, that I would rather that   
they live, and know I have killed a man, than that they be dead."

She would not meet my eyes. Well. Thank you, Harry bloody Potter; now one of my   
colleagues believes I'm a mad killer.

"Minerva. Talk some sense into Potter."

"I spoke to him after supper. He's determined." She turned her cup on its   
saucer. "Obsessed, almost."

God give me strength! I glared at the ceiling as though it were to blame for my   
trials. "I can't imagine why."

"Why don't you ask him?"

I felt as though I could spit venom. "He's a stupid child." 

She shook her head. "He's not stupid, Severus." 

I stood. "You couldn't prove it by me."

And I left her there, staring into her cup as if to divine the future.

* * *

I waited a week before formally responding to the request. Minerva, at my   
insistence, had spoken with Mr. Potter once more, but he seemed resolute. 

And so it was that the Fat Lady trembled and opened before me, and I walked into   
the Gryffindor common room. Several students gasped and scattered; that wretch   
Longbottom stayed put, staring at me with his great mouth open. "Longbottom."

"S-sir?"

"Fetch Mr. Potter." He blinked. "Now, Mr. Longbottom."

He fell over himself getting away from me. Hah.

Potter came skittering down the stairs from the dorm and slid to a stop in front   
of me. "Professor!"

Eagerness. The boy was more determined than I thought. More than resolute. Good   
God; he actually seemed to desire this.

I couldn't imagine it. Five years in apprentice's quarters off of my chambers;   
five years of instruction and close work with me, a man he has hated almost from   
the first moment we met. 

A mutual hatred, I might add, although the years do seem to have mellowed it to   
dislike. Trust tempers all ill-will, in time, though I still have fantasies of   
feeding Sirius Black to one of Hagrid's pets.

"Mr. Potter." I handed him the scroll, and he unrolled it with unsteady hands and   
read it--my formal and registered acceptance of the contract he had offered. Then   
he let it roll back up and nodded at me.

"Thank you, sir."

"Report a month after end of term, Mr. Potter." My apprentice.

"Yes, sir."

I raised my eyebrows. As annoying as I found his cheek, a lack of it would never   
do. "And for God's sake, don't be so submissive, boy. You're not a slave."

He grinned, a flash of teeth. "Bugger off, sir."

Excellent. I narrowed my eyes at him. "Well, well. There's hope for you yet."

Without waiting for any response he might make, I left, conscious of the stares of   
the children. A second-year squeaked as I brushed by her on the way to the door.

Instilling fear into Gryffindors is one of the most pleasant parts of my job.

The Fat Lady closed behind me, and I could hear the babble of voices begin.   
"Harry? What was Snape--you told him to *what*--what are you--Snape--oh my God,   
Harry, are you in *trouble*? Why was *Snape*--what are *you*...*Snape*..."

I laughed to myself and decided to pay a visit to the Slytherin common room on my   
way to my office. Ah, students.

* * *

I constructed a preliminary curriculum for the first year of Potter's   
apprenticeship. Defence Against the Dark Arts--serious defence, not the simple   
shielding work we teach all students--requires that the student learn as much   
about the Dark Arts as possible.

Enough to make themselves the next Voldemort. It's happened before, and I am   
certain that it will again.

Not with my students. I swore it to myself, over and over, when Albus made me   
Head of Slytherin House. No student of mine. Not now. Not ever.

And now there was Harry Potter. My apprentice. He was, if nothing else, unlikely   
to view the Dark Arts themselves with a favorable eye.

Still.

I know what a narrow path it is to walk. I would not have even a boy I despise   
slide into madness.

I had not had an opportunity to teach such advanced magic for some time, and I   
found myself relishing the thought. Potter and I would go over the curriculum and   
adjust it to his taste and abilities at the end of the summer, but for now, just   
the feel of turning the spells over in my mind was enough.

I cast curses on nearly everything at Hogwarts while testing my abilities and   
memory. Fabulous mental exercises, curses.

Between dealing with exams and the curriculum, end of term came quickly. The   
final day of classes, I took Draco aside and wished him well. He pulled his hand   
from my handshake quickly and never met my eyes. There was nothing for it, of   
course--I could not help him. Someone else might yet, but I could not.

He was headed to university, where I had asked old friends to look after him. I   
hoped he would do well. 

End of term announcements contained few enough surprises. Pansy Parkinson's   
apprenticeship to Potions Mistress Bevanda in Padua, Italy caused a small stir;   
apparently few people believed that anyone, even a Slytherin, could possibly enjoy   
Potions. She smiled at me when Albus announced it; Francesca Bevanda was a good   
woman and a talented witch. I was pleased to see Pansy apprenticed so well.

Potter was next, of course, and Albus said "Mr. Potter will be staying at   
Hogwarts, as resident apprentice to Professor Snape."

Apparently, Potter had been close-mouthed about his decision; all four Houses went   
dead silent.

I do love startling people. Snape the spy, Snape the Death Eater--Apprentice-  
Master to Harry Potter, Golden Boy. I smiled grimly at the students for the sheer   
hell of it. Sirius Black, visiting on Ministry business, looked as though he were   
about to explode from rage; young Ronald Weasley glared at me with all the   
fierceness a rather skinny teenaged boy could muster. Delightful.

Potter, for his part, looked at me and grinned, that same quick flash of teeth   
he'd shown me in the Gryffindor common room. Perhaps he, too, enjoyed startling   
people. I would have to remember that.

As I had expected, Black stormed over to me after the Leaving Feast. "What the   
hell do you think you're--"

"Sirius," Potter said, grabbing his godfather's sleeve. "I told you I was   
planning to study advanced Defence--"

"With *him*?" He pointed an outraged finger at me, and I brushed my sleeves   
lightly and stared into space, thinking about the noises Black would make while   
being slowly poisoned. Painfully.

"Yes. With him."

Black was silent so long that I actually looked away from the roof of the Great   
Hall--the sun was just beginning to set, and the sky was hazy with color--to look   
at him. "Harry," he said, finally, "are you sure?"

I flicked imaginary lint from my robe. Timing is half of any art.

"Yes," Potter said.

"Mr. Potter."

He turned to me quickly. "Sir?"

"One month, Potter. Enjoy your holiday."

"Yes, sir."

I nodded coolly to Black and headed off to speak with Pansy.

One month, and Hogwarts would have its first apprentice-resident in a quarter   
century.

And Harry Potter would call me "Master", which would send most of the wizarding   
world into absolute fits.

I could hardly wait.


	2. The Apprenticeship Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spittle and focus: the cornerstone of any good relationship.

I hummed to myself as I worked on medicinal potions for Poppy Pomfrey's stores.   
The students would return soon enough, with their usual collection of injuries and   
childhood diseases; we purchased most from normal suppliers, but a few I preferred   
to make myself.

Really, some of them are related more to Muggle science than to any branch of   
wizardry. There is a reason that I am widely considered the best Potions Master   
in Europe, if not the world: none of the rest have bothered to read Linus Pauling,   
let alone any serious organic chemistry.

Idiots. I have no fondness for Muggles, but that's no cause for ignoring their   
research.

Someone rapped lightly at the door. "Come in."

"Professor Snape?"

I looked up. "Harry Potter. So you have come, after all."

He edged into the room. "I signed the contract, didn't I?"

"So you did. Pass me that basilisk enzyme, behind you."

He handed me the bottle, and I carefully measured out what I needed.

"What's that for?"

"Healing broken bones. Introduces a certain rigidity which prevents fractures   
from separating--ah." The potion turned blue, and I whispered a word to the   
heating elements, which went cold immediately. 

"Why can't you just use a bone-healing spell?"

"This is used in conjunction with that, or alone when no one who can perform that   
spell is available." I studied the potion critically for a moment. Perfect.   
"Bottle, freeze, and store," I said, and turned to Potter. "Make yourself useful   
and clean this up. I've got two salves and a cerate to finish."

He stared, as if entranced, at the bottles filling themselves with the potion,   
freezing themselves, and vanishing in tiny thunderclaps. "Are the medicine   
bottles enchanted?" he asked.

"Of course not. It would interfere with the efficacy of the potions."

"So how--"

The boy really could be terribly dense at times. "A spell, Mr. Potter. You heard   
it, did you not? 'Bottle, freeze, and store.'"

"But you didn't use a wand," Harry said, and I sighed and leaned my hands on the   
table.

"Magic, Potter, is not about wands or incantations. It is about focus. The wand   
is a focal point, as is the incantation--you do not, strictly speaking, need   
*either*."

He looked puzzled, and I picked up his hand, turned it over, spat into the palm.   
He made a noise of disgust and tried to jerk away, but I said "Toad!" and the spit   
wriggled in his hand, turned green--and then a confused toad blinked up at us.

"Did you never do magic without meaning to, as a child? Merely by willing   
something?"

"A few times," he said, his voice shaking, his body shaking, his hand trembling in   
mine.

I let him go. "Focus," I said, and turned back to the salves.

The toad hopped out of his hand and made for the door.

"We'll go over your curriculum later, Mr. Potter," I said, adding comfrey to my   
mortar. "For now--clean."

* * *

Potter studied the curriculum I had laid out. "Do we *have* to do Ancient   
Curses?"

I set my quill down. "How do you expect to effectively counter the Dark Arts if   
you won't learn about their history? Often the counter-curses are found in the   
origins."

He sighed. "Please tell me I don't have to have it from Professor Binns."

"Hardly. You are no longer a Hogwarts student; you are technically junior staff,   
under my direction. These aren't classes, Mr. Potter; they are courses of study.   
What I have constructed here is an interrelated curriculum intended to give you a   
solid grounding in the Dark Arts."

"Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"No. The Dark Arts. You cannot develop any serious defence without knowing the   
enemy." I tapped the scroll sharply. "It isn't set in stone. We can and will   
adjust it to your needs and desires. But you *will* get a thorough education.   
I'll stand for nothing less."

He scowled at the scroll and picked up my discarded quill. "Yeah, OK. Ancient   
Curses, the Patronus Variants...can we do the Druidic counter-curses?"

"Next year," I said. "You'll need more experience with the Latinate curses they   
were designed for, first, to understand the underlying structures."

He scribbled something. "If we don't need a wand or incantation, then why do the   
structures matter?"

Good God. Had the boy learned nothing in his years here? I'd've thought Minerva,   
at least, would have drilled the rudiments into him. "I don't care about the   
shape of the words that you use, Potter. *Magic* doesn't care." I reached over   
and rapped him on his scar with my knuckle. "It's the shape of the thought that   
matters. Some words help to focus that. The wands help. But they are hardly the   
be-all and end-all of magic. Would you use a charm for potions? Or herbology?"   
I gestured at his scroll. "Get back to it, Mr. Potter." 

He bit his lip and returned to his work in silence. 

I rubbed at the Dark Mark on my left arm; it ached unpleasantly in the cold of my   
dungeons. "I want to see your notes and suggestions on that proposed curriculum   
by tomorrow, and a list of supplies that your research tells you we'll need." 

"Research?"

"You'll find you can check out anything from the Restricted section of the   
library, now that you are an apprentice here, rather than a student. Next week,   
we will go to Diagon Alley."

"You're going to Diagon Alley?" He stared as me as if in disbelief. 

"Despite what you think of me, boy, I do, upon occasion, venture outside of this   
school."

"I didn't mean--"

"You most certainly did. Now, run along. You've work to do in the library." I   
waved my hand at him, and he grabbed his things and headed out, leaving me to a   
few moments of peace.

I cut myself a new quill and thought about the influence of the Latinate curse   
structures on curses developed by native speakers of Romance languages. Really, I   
ought to finish writing that research up and publish it; curse structures are a   
neglected area of study.

No one wants to be accused of practicing the Dark Arts. Well. Perhaps Potter and   
I should co-author the paper; that ought to put a few people's minds at rest.

Or otherwise. Hah.

* * *

"I've hired a new Defence professor," Albus said, handing me a glass of whisky.

"Oh?" I was well aware of the rumors that I want the Defence position; I wondered   
who believed them. I wondered if Albus believed them; I knew Minerva did. "Which   
one?" We had interviewed three since the end of the term; none of them were   
particularly compelling choices.

"Arthur Albion."

"Hah! On your head be it, Albus. That fool wouldn't know a Dark wizard if   
Voldemort himself stood before him." Albion had *not* impressed me at his   
interview--he'd been weak on his counter-curses and magical remedies.

"Oh, he's not quite so dense as that, Severus."

"He's better than Lockhart, certainly," I said. "I would point out, however, that   
your average slug would have been better than Lockhart."

"Yes, well." He sipped his drink. "Sometimes I wonder if the job *is* cursed."   
I raised my eyebrows at him, and he smiled. "If I gave it to you, I fear we might   
lose you, too."

"I don't want it." I swirled my whisky around in my glass. "Tell me. Do you   
think Voldemort is finally gone?"

He shook his head. "I couldn't say, my boy. I couldn't say. I can find no trace   
of him, but that doesn't mean much."

"He's vanished before."

"Yes." Albus was silent for a while, staring into his glass. 

I held mine up to the light to look at the color. Whisky is a beautiful liquid, a   
translucent live amber. I've always been fond of Islays, but Albus favored   
Highland single-malts. This one didn't have the whisper of magic around it that   
wizard-distilled liquors did, but I didn't mind as I normally would.

I dipped a finger into the whisky and lifted it out, sketched in air with the   
evaporating fluid. The Dark Mark hung between us, shimmering.

Albus looked at it for a long moment, and then said, "Can you still see it?"

I rolled up my sleeve and held out my arm to him. The Mark was clearly visible,   
as it always was. As it had been for over three years. "I don't know if it will   
fade again," I said, bitterly. "It did after Potter's parents were killed, but   
this time--"

He touched it lightly, and I winced. "Does it hurt, Severus?"

"To the bone," I answered, and drained my glass.

He poured me more as I rolled my sleeve back over the Mark. My arm throbbed.

"I asked a great deal of you, I know. I may yet ask more."

"You know you have whatever is mine to give." My life, even, should you ask--but   
I did not say that. I did not need to say it.

He nodded, and I clutched my glass, hard, to keep my hand from shaking. I knew   
Voldemort might yet be out there, and the next time he returned, I would be openly   
against him--not a spy within the Death Eaters. Different risks. Different   
challenges. I wondered how I would face them.

With Potter, like as not. I smirked; the thought was intriguing, to say the   
least. He and I had fought back-to-back over the past few years, but he was a   
student, half-trained. What we might be together with him in the fullness of his   
power--

"Potter should've been a Slytherin," I said.

Albus, a Gryffindor himself, frowned at me. "You think so?"

"I think that if Voldemort lives still, we may have need of those of my House--on   
the side of right."

"Teach him what he needs to know, Severus. Teach him everything he needs to   
know."

I set my glass down and stood to leave. "I need no instruction to do so, sir." 

His hand on my wrist stopped me. "Severus. I have never doubted you. I will not   
start now."

I looked down at him. "I know." The pain of the Mark on my arm lessened   
abruptly.

He let me go, and I went to my rooms to get some sleep. 

Potter was reading in the sitting room, and looked up when I walked in. "Sir?"

"Mr. Potter." I sat down across from him and looked at the title of the book he   
was reading. Hrr. Interesting. It was "The Myth of Purity," the treatise on so-  
called pureblood wizarding families that I wrote just after Voldemort's   
disappearance seventeen years ago; it made me somewhat unpopular with a number of   
my former classmates.

Mostly the Death Eaters. I can't say I mourned the loss of their affection.

"What do you think of that?" I asked, and he carefully set it down.

"Well, I don't--I mean. It's--I suppose I always thought that you liked pureblood   
families."

I leaned back into my chair, feeling relaxed from the whisky. It was not an   
unpleasant feeling, although it was unusual. "I care only for talent and   
intelligence. I have no patience with idiocy." I narrowed my eyes at him. "Or   
with children coasting on their parents' legacies."

"But you always treated Draco--"

I cut him off with a wave of my hand, and my arm began to burn and throb again, as   
if the wave had sent blood rushing to it, pressing on it from within. "Draco   
Malfoy is a gifted boy. His parents were not part of the equation--not on my end,   
at any rate. I am certain *he* thought they were."

Potter frowned. "Do you really--" He stopped, bit his lip, continued. "Do you   
think that Voldemort is really gone?"

That was not what he had intended to ask, I was certain. Nevertheless. "I have   
already had this conversation once tonight," I said. "I do not know. No one   
knows." I stood up and looked down at him, a child not yet grown to manhood in   
body, but in mind and will--ah, mind and will. Untaught as yet, but the potential   
was there, humming beneath his skin, strong with the use he had made of it over   
the past years. I could almost taste it in the air around him. "We're going to   
Diagon Alley tomorrow, Mr. Potter. Be ready by 9 A.M."

"Yes, sir. Good night."

I went to bed, but it was a long time before I slept.


	3. Diagon Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping is hard. Let's do math!

Diagon Alley two days before the start of term is a busy place; procrastinators of   
every stripe crowd the shops, looking for wands, robes, owls. I rather enjoy it;   
even the persistent dull ache of the Dark Mark couldn't spoil the pleasure.

Madame Malkin's for robes--Potter needed some decent apprentice's robes; his old   
school robes wouldn't do. "Green," I said to Malkin. "Close-fitting enough not   
to get in the way of Potions work; athletic enough for Defence. Something similar   
to my own." She nodded and got to work; if she was surprised that Potter was my   
apprentice, she hid it well.

"Green?" Potter said, over Malkin's head. "I've already got green dress robes."

"These are for every day," I said. ""If you were McGonagall's apprentice, you   
would wear red."

He looked down at himself, at the fall of Slytherin green over his body. "Oh."

I snorted and turned to look through the window at the passing crowd.

When Malkin was finished, I paid her. "Send them to Hogwarts, with silver under-  
tunics, along with three sets of my teaching robes. In white, with black under-  
tunic." She nodded, and we left.

"You didn't have to pay," Potter said. "I've got money."

"It is my responsibility to clothe you, Mr. Potter." I closed my hand on his   
shoulder and leaned in, lowered my voice so that only he could hear. "We are   
bound together, you and I, to one fate. Apprentice and master; master and   
apprentice." He tensed and shivered under my hand. "It is a powerful thing, Mr.   
Potter. Nearly as powerful as the bonds you share with your parents, which   
survive even death; certainly more powerful than the bond you and I both share   
with Lord Voldemort." I straightened and flickered my fingers over his scar. He   
hissed and moved away. "Does it hurt?" I asked, my hand hovering above it,   
feeling the sympathetic pain in my arm.

"Sometimes," he answered. "It's why I wonder--"

"Severus!" I dropped my hand and we both turned towards the voice. Minerva was   
pushing her way through the hustle and bustle. "Severus, where's--oh, there you   
are, Harry." She smiled at us both and patted me on the arm; I flinched slightly.   
"Come on."

"Come *where*?" Minerva in a cheery mood can be quite obnoxious.

"Fortescue's. My treat. Come on, Severus--he's got fire sherbet."

She does know my weaknesses. I shook off her hand, but followed her to the ice   
cream parlor and allowed her to buy me a scoop of fire sherbet, and Potter a small   
sundae.

We sat outside, and Minerva and Potter discussed his holidays at great length   
while I ignored them entirely. Good God, but they could prattle on. At least the   
smokey, coppery taste of the sherbet gave me something else to think about.

"Harry!"

The youngest Weasley, that infuriating girl-child Ginny, came out of nowhere and   
attached herself to Potter's neck. "Harry, how are you?"

"I'm fine," he said, blushing and eyeing me nervously. 

Weasley saw Minerva before she saw me. "Oh! Professor McGonagall! Hi!"

"Hello, Ginny," Minerva said, and then the girl saw me and turned a fascinating   
shade of grey. I sneered at her, and she detached herself from my apprentice's   
neck.

"Professor Snape. Sir."

"Miss Weasley." I stared at her until the grey shaded into a sickly green, then   
said "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir." She smiled weakly, then looked back at Potter. "I'll--um. I'll see   
you."

"Yeah," he said, and she took off running.

"Severus..." Minerva said.

"What?"

"Did you have to terrify her?"

I bared my teeth at her. She ought to know me better by now. "When that child   
finally leaves, it will be the end of the current Weasley era at Hogwarts. As far   
as I am concerned, it cannot come too soon."

She sighed, and Potter glared at me. "I like the Weasleys," he said. "They're   
good people. Sir."

"But I am not, Mr. Potter, and I am under no obligation to feel brotherly love for   
them."

He went back to eating his sundae in silence. Minerva licked her spoon and asked   
me about our plans for the rest of the day.

"Apothecary," I said, "and then some passable Muggle clothes for my apprentice   
here."

Said apprentice looked up. "Muggle clothes?" he said, blinking at me.

"You and I will need to interact with Muggles on occasion. I'm certainly not   
going to have you wearing those terrible things you seem so fond of."

"I'm not *fond* of them. They're all I have."

"Hrr. Black ought to have found you some things, at least."

"He's only been pardoned a couple of months," Potter said. "He hasn't really had   
time."

I snorted. How long would it have taken Black to buy the boy some decent clothing   
in the past month? "We'll find you something suitable."

"Thank you, sir."

I leaned back in my seat and cut my eyes over to Minerva. "He's not nearly so   
cheeky now that you have no authority to protect him from me," I said.

She punched me lightly in the arm, and I pulled away as the Mark twinged   
viciously. "Minerva. Don't."

"What's wrong?"

I laid my right palm over the Mark. "Nothing of importance," I said. "A minor   
injury."

"You should see Poppy about it," she said.

"I shall," I answered, lying through my teeth, and that seemed to satisfy her. 

"I'm off to Flourish and Blotts, then," she said, and stood up. "You two have a   
good day."

Potter smiled up at her, and I nodded. After she had vanished into the crowd,   
Potter said "Master?"

"Yes?"

"You lied to her."

"Yes." I reached out and, for the second time that day, brushed my fingers over   
his scar. He swallowed, hard, and dropped the subject.

* * *

The apothecary was not pleased by the list Potter and I had decided upon.   
"Professor," he said, "many of the things here--innocent on their own, but in   
combination--"

I cocked my head and didn't drop my eyes. Potter, beside me, folded his arms and   
raised his chin. 

"I'll have to report these purchases to the Ministry," the apothecary said, his   
eyes darting from me to Potter and back, as if wondering why we were there   
together. 

"By all means," I answered. "Now. Fill that order."

"Professor--"

And then, from my side, "Why don't you just do as my master asks?" Hah! I was   
hard-pressed not to laugh at the apothecary's startled jump. So many suspect me of   
so much--of not being a spy, but a true Death Eater, of being the true power   
behind Voldemort, of living under a curse--and Harry Potter, of course, is their   
shining light.

If for no other reason, his apprenticeship brought me pleasure in the horror it   
writ on the faces of the unwary. I folded my own arms and thinned my mouth into   
the grim smile that I use to terrify students.

The apothecary filled the order with shaking hands, while I hummed a dirgelike   
version of the Hogwarts school song under my breath and Potter examined the   
shelves.

"Master?"

"Yes?"

He held out a jar of willow bark. "You don't have any willow bark in your stores.   
I've never seen it, anyway."

The boy had some powers of observation, then. Good. "I don't use it."

"Oh." He looked at it, plainly confused. "But--I mean, I know I wasn't the   
greatest in Potions, but I thought it was used in a lot of medicinal things."

"It is."

"So why--" 

I cut my hand across my throat and narrowed my eyes at the apothecary, who was   
watching us, his face blank. "I will tell you, Mr. Potter, in time. But not   
here. Not now. My secrets are not for the ears of just anyone."

The apothecary blushed and handed over the supplies. I gave them to Potter--what   
good is an apprentice who cannot carry one's packages--and paid, and Potter and I   
left the shop.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Why does he have to report the purchases to the Ministry?"

I shrugged. "In certain combinations, what I purchased can be used to make some   
powerful Dark Art potions and spells."

"Oh."

I looked down my nose at him. "You did help me assemble that list, Mr. Potter.   
You should have known this."

"I did. I just--I didn't know it had to be reported."

"Every suspicious purchase is, now. After Voldemort."

"Oh."

* * *

The selection of Muggle-style clothing in Diagon Alley left something to be   
desired, but I was not prepared to take Potter into Muggle London. Not yet.

Two pairs of trousers, then, two Indian cotton shirts, and a warm jacket. He told   
me he had jumpers enough from Molly Weasley, which I was not exactly surprised to   
hear. 

He insisted on wearing one of the new outfits out of the store, and asked the   
obsequious young Squib helping us to throw his old clothing away. Hrr. I   
wondered where he'd got it that he hated it so much.

He did look rather less idiotic with his old student robe open over clothing that   
fit than he had with it closed over the bulky monstrosities he'd worn before.   
Thank God I'd got him apprentice robes similar to my own, which need no trousers   
beneath them.

At least neither of us would be disgraced at the opening banquet.

Hah. Though when Slytherin House saw me in white, with Potter at my side--

I wondered how many students would die of aneurysms.

"You have a day's liberty, Mr. Potter," I said. "Go see your godfather, or your   
friends." 

"Sir?"

"I'll expect you back tomorrow evening." I took the packages from the apothecary   
from him, but left him the clothing. "Go on."

"Thank you, sir!" He grinned and took off for the Alley fireplace, his bags slung   
over his shoulder.

Hrr. Was I ever so young? 

I headed back to Hogwarts, planning the traps I'd set for him to run into on his   
return.

He wouldn't be expecting it, and he should be. Wariness was not native to him; I   
would teach it.

I'd make a Slytherin of the boy yet.


	4. One Apprentice, Slightly Shaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Potter and slime don't mix.

I was revising lesson plans when I heard a thump out in the corridor, and my Spy-  
Eye flickered to life. It showed Potter, backed up against a wall by my illusory   
basilisk. Hah! Parseltongue wouldn't work on that. I leaned forward and rested   
my elbows on the desk, watching my apprentice.

He had his eyes closed, and he spoke. The basilisk ignored it--and he opened his   
eyes and looked it in the face. Good. *Good*. 

He dispelled it quickly and walked forward--and the floor opened beneath his feet.   
I waited a second, and then his wand slid under the door and skittered over to   
rest against my foot. I turned the Spy-Eye off and went back to my lessons; he   
would either find his way through the pit or he wouldn't. Blind, without his   
wand--we'd see. If he wasn't back by midnight, I'd go fetch him.

At half-eleven, the floor vibrated beneath my chair. Ten minutes later, I heard   
footsteps in the corridor, and then "ALOHOMORA!" 

The unresisting door banged open with great force, and I looked over at Potter and   
affected surprise at his appearance--he was covered in rather unappealing slime.   
"Mr. Potter. I see you cannot be bothered to care for your new clothing."

He glared at me. "Did you *know* there was a basilisk out there?"

I went back to writing. "Yes. How did you get past it?"

"And did you *know* there was a pit full of *slime*?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't *warn* me?"

I set my quill down and turned to face him. Really, he resembled a drowned rat.   
"Why would I do that?"

He attempted to wave his arms around, but his sodden clothing restricted his   
movement. "You--you're my *master*. You're supposed to *care*."

I raised my eyebrows. "I am supposed to *teach*, Mr. Potter. Which I do,   
endlessly and always."

"That was a *lesson*?"

"Of course."

"What kind of lesson is that?"

I folded my hands on my writing-desk and leaned forward. "How did you get past   
the basilisk?"

He rolled his eyes. "I talked to it. And it didn't--I mean, I'm a Parselmouth,   
it should have *listened*, and it didn't, so I figured--it's not real, right?"

I inclined my head.

"So, I opened my eyes--and I was right. It wasn't real. And *then*, the floor   
just falls out from under me! I lost my wand, and I ended up in this pit of slime   
with no light, and--" He tried again to wave his arms around, with no more   
success. "And I remembered what you said about *focus*, and I tried to use Lumos,   
but nothing happened, so I felt around the wall and it took me *forever* to find a   
hole and crawl up here and I *hate* you!"

"Do you?"

"Yes!"

"Good." I stood up and walked over to him. He was shivering; I knew from   
experience that the slime was quite cold. "How did you know that the hole would   
lead you out?"

He shuffled his feet and looked at the floor, then past my left shoulder. "I   
didn't. But stuff was coming out of it, and I thought--that has to come from   
somewhere."

I nodded once, shortly. "So. Through fear, and anger, and hatred, you kept   
yourself together and escaped."

He glared at me. "You already knew that about me. You *knew* that."

"Circumstances alter cases, Mr. Potter. Different risks, and different   
challenges. You have shown adaptability of mind, which, all things considered, is   
no mean feat."

He ran a slimy hand through his hair, which was beginning to crust. "You're   
awfully cruel."

"Of course."

"Why?"

I raised my chin and looked down at him; I have quite a bit of height to work   
with, and I do like making the most of it. "I *enjoy* it, you stupid boy. Now.   
Go clean up."

He squelched off into the bathroom, and I summoned some house elves to clean up   
the floors. One of them handed me Potter's wand, which I placed on his desk for   
him to find, next to the neat package which contained his new robes.

Tomorrow was the Sorting Ceremony and the opening banquet. It promised to be   
interesting.

* * *

I shook the folds of the white robe over my shoulders and buttoned the high-  
collared front over the black under-tunic. I normally wore white under my black   
robes; this was quite a difference. I, Severus Snape, in Apprentice-Master's   
white? 

My family would have died of shock, had any of them lived to see it. Hah. I   
crossed my arms over my chest so that my hands touched their opposite shoulders,   
then closed my eyes and imagined the effect. 

Not as intimidating as my usual black, but it would do. White has a power all its   
own.

Potter cursed from his sleeping chambers, and I went into the sitting room to wait   
for him. 

I did not have to wait for long. He stormed in, his over-tunic unbuttoned and   
under-tunic rumpled and glared at me. "Mr. Potter?"

"There are *no* *mirrors* around here."

"I am aware of that."

"How am I supposed to figure out if I'm doing this right with no mirror?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You *are* a wizard, are you not? Cast a reflecting   
spell on your wall."

The look he gave me told me he hadn't even thought of it. "Is that what you do?"

Hah. "No. Come here."

He moved to stand in front of me, and I straightened his under-tunic with a quick   
tug and buttoned the over-tunic. "I'm not a baby," he complained, as I settled   
his collar. There. Potter in Slytherin green and silver--perhaps it was   
fortunate that his family, too, was long dead.

"No," I answered, releasing him. "You are not. You are my apprentice--not quite   
a child, yet not a man, nor yet my equal, but my charge and my responsibility. I   
feed you. I clothe you. I teach you and I keep you safe." I studied his face,   
still tanned from the summer. "You are my apprentice, Mr. Potter. It is a bond   
that cannot be undone, and I will not have you look a disgrace."

He colored, and I raised my eyebrows. "You did tell me that you knew, when you   
asked me--"

"I do! I just--" He bit his lip and looked away. "I mean--reading about it isn't   
the same. It doesn't tell you--" Infuriating child. I considered shaking him   
until he generated a coherent sentence. "Anything. It doesn't." He met my eyes,   
and I saw the fear in him, like a poison in his blood.

No. Nothing I knew about apprenticeships had prepared me for the reality of it. I   
spoke to him more gently then than I had intended. "It has been scarcely a week   
and a half, Mr. Potter. Give yourself time to adjust."

"It would be easier if I had a mirror," he muttered, and I stood and brushed him   
out of my path. 

"If you must, then you must. Keep it out of the shared areas."

"Hate to look at yourself as much as I do?" he asked, eyes narrowed, chin up, and   
I laughed out loud.

"Never lose that, boy. If you hate me, you hate me--it may keep you alive one   
day." Hate has kept me alive many a long year, after all; hate kept that thrice-  
blasted Black sane in Azkaban. Hate kept Voldemort alive for years, bodiless; I   
wondered again if his fire was finally spent, or if battles remained to be fought.

"We'll be late if we dally much longer," I said, and Potter followed me out of the   
dungeons to the Great Hall.

* * *

The Great Hall was empty of students when we reached it. Arthur Albion, the new   
Defence professor, had been seated next to Minerva's empty chair; there were two   
chairs open to Albus's left. I moved for those, Potter close at my side.

As we crossed behind Albion, he turned and snatched Potter's wrist. I stopped and   
turned to see what he was up to. "Apprentice Potter--I must say, my boy, how--"   
and he lowered his voice, obviously unaware that I have excellent hearing--"you   
*must* be careful of your master. There are rumors--" 

I seized Albion's wrist and hauled him to his feet, breaking his hold on Potter.   
He froze, and I leaned in close. "Whatever the rumors are, Professor Albion, I   
assure you--the truth is worse."

Hah. He turned as white as my robes.

Voices and footfalls announced the arrival of the students. "Master--" Potter   
said, and I released Albion before any of Hogwarts' young charges saw anything   
that might damage their precious notions of scholarly camaraderie.

I shot Albus a poisonous look as I sat down, and he had the grace to look slightly   
abashed. "Perhaps next year," I muttered to him, "we might have Trelawney choose   
our Defence professor from chicken entrails."

"I will admit that I've considered it," he murmured back, and I snorted. It   
couldn't be any *less* reliable than whatever mysterious method Albus was   
currently using.

The students came in in their usual madding rush, sorted themselves into Houses,   
elbowed each other and looked up at the ceiling of the Hall. They do that every   
year, as if they have not just come from outside.

And then, as they settled, they looked at the front of the room and fell silent.   
Minerva led in the first-years, and the Sorting began.

"Gryffindor!"

"Gryffindor!"

"Ravenclaw!"

"Hufflepuff!"

"Slytherin!"

My students applauded loudly as Maria Drago hopped off the stool and joined them   
at their table. They shook her hand and settled her, then pointed up at me. She   
looked from me to Potter and back, her expression somewhere between stricken and   
curious. I inclined my head to her, and from the corner of my eye, I saw Potter do   
likewise. Hah. Welcome, child. Welcome to my House.

She was the first of seven new Slytherins that night.


	5. Confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape and Arthur Albion don't mix, either. Neither do Mr. Potter and Slytherin House.

After the feast, the students filed out, and I leaned over to Potter. "Go with   
the Slytherins. Keep them in the common room until I get there."

"Sir?"

"You won't need a password; the portrait opens for staff." He blinked at me, and   
I raised my eyebrows. "Now, Mr. Potter. I have business to attend to here." 

He looked past me at Albion, and nodded. Potter is many things, but he has never   
been other than quick-witted. He left in a rather impressive swirl of robes.   
Hah. If he kept that up, I might stop disliking him quite so much.

But there were other matters to attend to. I followed the newest member of   
Hogwarts's teaching staff out into the hall.

"Albion."

He turned and looked up at me; I towered over him. "Snape." Oh, God, but he hated   
me. I narrowed my eyes and spoke through clenched teeth.

"If you have accusations to make, make them to Dumbledore. Leave my apprentice   
alone."

Albion drew himself up. "He has a right to know what you are. A right to know   
what dangers you may present."

Hrr. "I daresay he knows better than you what I am." Albion had no answer to that.   
I stepped closer, and he backed up until his shoulders hit the wall. "I would   
advise you not to interfere with his apprenticeship." I turned on my heel and   
walked off.

"Snape!" he called, from behind me. "I will be watching you!" I did not stop or   
give any sign that I had heard.

Defence professors. My favorite prey.

I entered the Slytherin dorms silently, letting the portrait fall shut behind me.   
Potter had Petrified one--no, two--seventh-years. I crossed my arms and did a   
quick survey: the rest of the seventh- and sixth-years were arrayed at one end;   
the younger students hovered uncertainly near the doorways.

"Mr. Potter."

"Master."

His voice did not shake, nor did he take his eyes off of the students. Potter   
learned about enemies in a harder school than most of these children had yet   
dreamed of. I know my House; they had expected him to be weak, despite--perhaps   
because of--his reputation. Hah.

He had survived Voldemort.

He bid fair to survive *me*, and I am a hard taskmaster. I will be harder yet   
before this is through.

"What happened?"

Potter undid the Petrificus curses with two quick flickers of his wand. "Nothing,   
Master. Not a thing."

"Good. I would *hate*, Mr. Potter, to think that my House failed to offer you the   
proper respect. Or that you failed to offer them consideration."

"No, sir."

Hrr. He is practiced at lying to me; I will give him that.

I beckoned at a small boy. "First-years to me. Here."

They stood before me; the youngest children of my House, the ones I was sworn to   
protect--from themselves, if necessary. I reached out and laid one hand on the   
head of the nearest.

"Name?"

"Salazar Sindar." Old family; mostly Ravenclaws and Slytherins. Good blood; I   
wondered if he would do it justice. I moved to the next. "Jessica Parkinson."   
Ah yes--Pansy had told me before she left that her young sister was starting at   
Hogwarts come autumn. Next. "Maria Drago." Next. "James Gardiner." Next.   
"Mallory Lestrange." Hrr. One to watch; quite a few members of the Lestrange   
family are in Azkaban--and with reason. Next. "Stephen Archer." Next and last.   
"Jacob Sindar." 

"Brothers or cousins?" I asked, looking from Salazar to Jacob.

"Cousins, sir," Jacob answered. "Second cousins. I think."

"Very well." I crossed my arms and took a step backwards to look at them all. "I   
am Professor Snape, head of Slytherin House. This is my apprentice, Mr. Potter.   
I expect you will treat him with all the respect due to me." I narrowed my eyes   
and looked at the older students, who shuffled their feet. "All of you."

I glanced back over my shoulder at Potter; he looked faintly surprised.   
"Apprentice Potter."

"Master?"

"Go and talk to Professor Albion. Find out what he wanted to tell you." 

He frowned, and I raised my eyebrows. "Discreetly, Potter." It would be best if   
Albion believed my apprentice mistrusted me enough to go behind my back, after   
all.

That drew a wicked grin from him. For a Gryffindor, the boy really does have a   
cunning streak; I had no doubt that I had been understood. "Yes, sir."

He slipped out through the portrait hole, and I turned back to my students.

"Well. I trust everyone enjoyed the holidays?"

They gathered around me. I have always been close to my House, entwined in the   
lives of my students. I am in them, in their blood like one of my potions.   
Subtle. Insidious.

Keeping them to me, where they are safe. Away from the darkness.

Young Salazar tugged at my sleeve and told me about the owl his parents had got   
him for school and how he'd already learnt the Jelly-Legs curse.

John Royce and Sarah Kane, two sixth-years, told me about the paper they'd been   
working on together, about the history of arithmancy. I promised to read it   
through before they showed it to Professor Vector.

Jessica whispered in my ear that Pansy had said to say hello to me.

I have never fathered children, and yet I call over one hundred children my own:   
every Slytherin in the past thirteen years is my son, my daughter, my student.

Even Draco Malfoy.

I bent my head to listen to soft-voiced Nigel Nephtys, who had apparently visited   
France with his father, and spoken to a full-blooded veela. He blushed fiercely   
as he said it.

Ah, students.

* * *

When I got back to my rooms, Potter was waiting for me, reading some more of "The   
Myth of Purity." 

I removed my outer robes and hung them by the door. "What did Albion have to   
say?"

He shrugged. "That the Weasleys are worried about me being your apprentice."

I raised my eyebrows. "You must have known that."

"Well, yes." He pushed up his glasses and looked away. "Also that--you're   
supposed to be a Death Eater. And to want to be the next Dark Lord."

Hah. "So it is as I said, then. The truth is worse than the rumor."

He frowned and looked confused. "How is--I mean, what's worse than that?"

I sat down across from him. "Truth is always more dangerous than rumor, Mr.   
Potter. What is true about me?"

He held my gaze for a long time before answering. "That you're a spy. Or were a   
spy. For Professor Dumbledore."

"And."

"And. You're Head of Slytherin House. And a teacher."

"Which means?"

"You--um, you have control over students?"

I nodded. "And?"

His frown deepened. "And--" He broke off and looked at me, his eyes wide, his   
breath coming fast. "And you're cruel. And--and you killed Lucius Malfoy."

"Yes."

"But you're not--I mean, you're not good, but you're *good*."

I reached out and touched his scar. My Mark burned sharply, as if the contact   
stirred it to life. "It is not a simple distinction, Mr. Potter. They say many   
things about me; if what Albion has told you is the worst of them, I will be   
surprised. Rumor is mutable and transitory, but nothing they say about me will   
change the truth--and the truth is not a pleasant thing."

He nodded, and I withdrew my hand. "Go to sleep, Mr. Potter. Tomorrow is a long   
day."

He set the book down and retired. I stayed awake for some time, working in my   
private laboratory. If Albion interfered with my apprentice again, he would live   
to regret it.


	6. If  You Don't Like Conversation in a Book, Skip This Chapter!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone talks far too much, and nothing is resolved.

I returned to my chambers after the first day of classes in a reasonably good   
mood. I had made two Hufflepuffs and a Gryffindor break down in tears today; one   
of the Hufflepuffs had been a fourth-year who ought to have known better than to   
provoke me.

No doubt Flora Sprout would be irritated and would refuse to speak to me.

I had also told a group of frightened third-years that Trelawney was a talented   
seer, and that no doubt whichever of them she had said would die would certainly   
keel over at the earliest opportunity, at which point the unfortunate victim of   
Sybil's idiocy fainted, amid much screaming.

Ah, students.

Potter was no doubt out with the Gryffindor Quidditch team; I'd given him leave to   
oversee their practices. I sat down to start grading the essays I'd set over the   
holidays. I calculated I could probably terrorize at least ten students by   
writing "see me" across the tops of the parchment.

Potions is not a subject for the undisciplined of mind; my students must have the   
utmost focus in my class: to create the potion, and to overcome the outside   
distractions (namely, me). I hummed to myself as I marked the essays, which were   
not quite as shoddy as I had anticipated.

I heard Potter enter, but ignored him. He moved around the room for a while   
before fetching "The Myth of Purity" from its shelf. I continued working while he   
read.

"Master?"

"Hm?"

"You're humming 'Jerusalem.'"

"What of it?"

"I didn't know you knew it."

I looked at him. "I *am* English, Mr. Potter. I could hardly avoid it."

"Sorry. I just--"

I narrowed my eyes. "You seem startled every time I betray any humanity at all,   
Mr. Potter." He flushed and looked back down at the book. "You don't like me, do   
you?"

He rubbed one finger along the binding. "No."

"And I don't like you."

"I know."

"So would you agree, Mr. Potter, that we would then, naturally, have skewed views   
of each other? Tend to view the other as rather less than we would otherwise?"

He cocked his head to one side and studied me a moment before answering. "No. I   
don't think we have to, at any rate." He bit his lower lip, his expression   
serious. "I mean, you're one of the smartest wizards I've ever met. I know   
you're really good at Potions, and I'm hopeless at them. I don't *like* you, but   
I think I know a lot about you. Especially these past few years."

I searched his face, but read nothing in it but that damnable Gryffindor nobility.   
"We have been allies, Mr. Potter, but never friends. I doubt we shall ever be   
friends; the hate between us runs deep."

He shrugged. "I wouldn't call it *hate*. If I hated you--" He broke off,   
shrugged again. 

I waited for him to speak. When he did not, I held out some of the essays to him.   
"Check these for spelling and grammar, if you would, then get them back to me.   
Tonight we will be starting the Horrific Transfigurations; I'd like to have most   
of the second-year essays finished by then."

He took the essays from my hand and came around to my writing desk. "Move over."

"Why?" 

"I need a place to write, and the table hurts my back. Move over." 

I glared at him, but complied. I would have to get him a desk of his own.

There was something companionable about working with him at my side. Something   
familiar--his power near me, in concert with my own. Odd. The only true   
companionship I have sought in many long years has been Albus's; I did not think   
to find anything so pleasant in the son of a man I hated.

Hrr. I thought of Potter's stammered explanation that he had not understood the   
reality of apprenticeship; next to me, he scratched away with his quill, quite   
unaware of my scrutiny.

I had not understood, either. I suspected that I still did not.

* * *

Dinner was a dismal affair; the students were raucous, Flora was obviously   
displeased that I had traumatized her precious Hufflepuffs, and Albion kept   
staring at me. Potter, to my surprise--but not my displeasure--encouraged Albion   
with a look and a grimace, and when the man finally turned away, gave me that   
wicked grin of his.

Cybindia Hooch leaned over as I idly turned my cutlets into tiny naked sheep. She   
whispered "You know, you really are going to get in trouble for that some day."

"For what?" The sheep wandered around my plate, bleating.

"That tendency of yours to set people against one another."

I skewered a sheep with my knife and ate it before answering. "I don't know what   
you're talking about."

Cybindia, fond of freshly caught prey herself, didn't even wince. "We all know   
the Ministry doesn't trust you. And you and Harry have never got along. I don't   
know what game you're playing with him and Albion, but if you're not careful--  
Severus, the Aurors have never truly understood what you were doing."

I killed another sheep. "I appreciate your concern. I assure you--Potter knows   
the rules of the game."

"Well--if you're certain."

"Quite certain." I held out my knife to her. "Sheep?" 

She waved it off. "No, thank you. I had some field mice earlier."

I ate the rest of my sheep in relative peace. Albion appeared perfectly   
horrified; Potter, who was by this time quite resigned to my habits, discussed his   
course of study with Catherine Sinistra in-between mouthfuls of his food.

Albion muttered something about "the Dark Arts" that could be heard all the way   
down the table, but I ignored him.

* * *

Potter and I looked out over Hogwarts from the Astronomy tower. A wind whispered   
around us as he spoke. "The Horrific Transfigurations are those that trap an   
aware human mind within another body," he said. "That's what the books say. But   
they don't say much else. Are werewolves transfigured like this?"

"No," I said. "Werewolves have no human awareness, and their transformations are   
temporary and externally triggered."

I rubbed at the Dark Mark on my arm. It had gone back to its normal dull ache   
over the past week, but today it was irritated and sore. "Suppose," I said, "that   
I were to turn you into a wolf, through a Horrific Transfiguration. You would   
have a wolf's body, a wolf's instincts and needs and desires--but you would be   
aware, all the time, of what you were doing. Unable to stop it, but aware. So if   
your wolf-body killed a child--"

He shuddered, and I waited for him to speak.

"And--you can also just trap someone," he said. "Turn them into--I don't know. A   
bush. Or a flobberworm."

"Traditionally, a myrrh tree. But yes."

"Why a myrrh tree?"

Oh, Mr. Potter. You should know better by now. "*Balsamo myrrha*!"

He screamed as the transfiguration tore him apart. The scream echoed from the   
towers and drew the ghosts from the walls; the Baron appeared beside me, warning   
off the others.

Where Potter's eyes had been, two streams of resin leaked; his tears, I would   
imagine. "Myrrh," I said, laying my hand on the bark of his body, at the scar in   
the wood that marked his own scar. "With wine, an anodyne--" and I pressed in,   
opening a fissure with my hand, so that resin ran from the scar to join his tears.   
"Also known as *karam*. A holy oil. An embalming oil." My fingers were sticky   
with myrrh; the scent was heavy in the air. "Astringent. Stimulant. Used in   
many medical potions--Myrrha, turned by her gods into this tree."

The Baron moaned softly beside me. 

"*Veritas*," I whispered, my hand still on Potter's scar.

The transformation back was lightening-quick, and he stood before me, pale and   
cold against my hand. I removed my hand, held it up to him: still covered in   
myrrh.

"Oh. My. God," he said, sinking to the floor. "That was--"

"Yes," I said. "It was." I pulled him to his feet. "We have work to do, boy."

The Baron vanished, but the scent of myrrh stayed as we worked into the night.


	7. The Rain Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More things are ruined by this than Malfoy's reputation.

Slytherin's first Quidditch match of the year was against Hufflepuff. Draco had   
left our Quidditch team before the final match of his seventh year, but our   
reserve Seeker, Cassius Montague, had done quite well, and was back on the team   
this year.

Minerva, as usual, was overseeing the announcing; only Gryffindor students tended   
toward the combination of loudness and self-exhibition necessary to call matches.   
Potter sat by me, "Hell Transfigured" open on his knees.

I leaned over to him. "I hope you're using Minerva's translation," I said. "The   
library has several others, but hers is the best." He flipped the cover so that I   
could see her name embossed along the bottom edge. "Ah. Good."

He smiled and went back to reading; he'd be trying a Horrific Transfiguration on   
me within the next few days. I was not looking forward to it.

On the pitch, Hufflepuff scored, amid much anti-Slytherin propaganda, and I shot   
Minerva a look. She clamped her hand on the shoulder of the announcer, and I saw   
her mouth move: "Enough!"

She looked back at me.

"You'll have to do better than that," I said, through gritted teeth; she could   
read my expression if not hear my words.

Beside me, Potter fell backwards. I caught the book as it slid off of his lap.   
"Mr. Potter--"

He sat up, holding a tiny owl to his chest. "Pig!"

It hooted at him.

"Pig?" I said, eying the owl with distaste. Potter owned a snowy owl; I didn't   
recognize this one.

"Pigwidgeon," he said. "Ron's owl."

How boring. 

The Gryffindor child calling the match spouted more propaganda, and Minerva   
removed him from duty.

"Ron's here at Hogwarts," Potter said. "His father sent him to see Dumbledore--  
this message is for you and me. We're to go up at once."

He held it out to me, but I waved it off and stood. "Very well." Arthur Weasley   
had many faults--his having set Albion on me just one of them--but he was, at   
least, not a bleeding idiot like Fudge. If he saw fit to send his youngest son   
here with a message, I could at least treat it as important.

Potter tossed the owl into the air and took his book from me, and we headed back   
into the castle.

As expected, Weasley did not appear happy to see me, but the grave expression   
Albus wore was a surprise. "Sir?" I said, as Potter seated himself next to his   
old friend.

"Ron brings us--rather distressing news from the Ministry," Albus said. "Severus.   
Sit down."

I turned instead to Weasley, who shook his head and said, "Draco Malfoy has   
vanished."

Draco. Vanished. I searched Weasley's face. "Go on."

"He withdrew from all his classes and has disappeared. No one seems to know where   
he is--the Ministry thought he might've gone home, but Malfoy Manor's boarded up.   
There weren't even any house-elves around."

"Draco closed it off when his parents died," I said. "He was supposed to be   
living with the De la Salles while at university--they promised to take care of   
him--"

"He didn't come in last night," Weasley said. "They sent an owl to the Ministry   
early this morning; my father sent me here as soon as we had confirmed that he   
wasn't at the manor."

"Albus--" I began, but he waved me to silence.

"Severus. Harry. Do either of you have any idea where Draco might've gone?"

I laughed bitterly. As if Draco would confide in me. My apprentice shook his   
head before answering. "No, Headmaster. Pansy Parkinson might know, though--they   
used to go out together."

"Father sent an owl to her," Weasley said. "There's--some people are worried that   
You-Know-Who--"

"Voldemort!" I said. "Use his name, you stupid--"

"Severus!" Albus in a grim mood is not a man to trifle with. I held my tongue.

With a nervous look on his face, Weasley continued. "Some people are worried that   
*he* might be on the rise again. That Draco's gone to join him. Others think   
that Draco wants to--to become the next Dark Lord himself."

Hrr. Not Draco. Never Draco. "Draco Malfoy doesn't have it in him," I said.   
"To join Voldemort, yes, that he might do. To try to become Voldemort?" I shook   
my head. "No."

"So certain," Albus said, and there was a question in his voice. I met his eyes   
but did not speak. "Very well," he said, after a moment. "I trust that I may   
rely on your discretion--all of you."

"'Course," Weasley and my apprentice said together. I merely inclined my head.

Albus sighed. "Very well. You may all go--Ron, would you like a carriage to   
Hogsmeade, or would you rather walk?"

"Walk, sir."

"Good lad." He patted Ron on the shoulder and turned to me. "Severus, come by   
tonight and we'll talk."

Of course. I nodded sharply and jerked my chin at Potter: follow me.

As we headed back towards our shared quarters, Potter touched my sleeve. The   
contact made my Mark itch; it was a sensation I had grown used to since he had   
begun his apprenticeship. "Why don't you think Draco could be a Dark Lord?" he   
asked.

I sighed and pressed my palm down over the Mark, willing it not to burn. "His   
parents spoiled him beyond belief," I said. "Do you know what happens when you   
take a creature you have petted and sheltered and spoilt and suddenly show it   
everything truly ugly about you and your world?"

He shook his head. 

"You snap its pretty romantic notions," I said. "If you're lucky, you merely break   
its will; if you are unlucky, you drive it mad." I looked at him and did not   
bother to hide my sorrow. "Draco Malfoy is a broken man, Mr. Potter. Such men   
may be desperate, but they haven't the will to be truly dangerous."

As we walked past the courtyard, students spilled in around us. Jessica Parkinson   
spun around me, laughing--"We won, Professor! We won, we won!"

"Excellent," I said, and she smiled and ran off; I looked after her thoughtfully.   
Pansy had been much quieter at that age, less able to conceal her ruthlessness,   
and yet I had no doubt that Jessica was Slytherin to the bone. I wondered what   
resources of cunning she must have developed, growing up with Pansy as a sibling.

"Master?" Potter said. "Are you all right?"

"Just thinking, Potter," I answered. "Just thinking."

* * *

Albus held out a glass of whisky to me. "You didn't fail the boy, Severus."

I took it, but did not drink. "Did I not?"

"No more than I," he said, settling back into his armchair, "and certainly less   
than his own parents."

"That is damning with faint praise indeed, Albus."

He sighed. "Severus--"

"Think!" I said. "Think, and then tell me I didn't fail him."

"What did you say to Harry, earlier?" he asked. "'Draco Malfoy is a broken man.'"

I sat down heavily. "Is there anything that happens at this damned place that you   
don't know about?"

"Very little," he said. "Now. How are you and Harry doing?"

"Well. We've been working on the Horrific Transfigurations." I wet my lips with   
my drink. "I'll need Hagrid's assistance for some of what I intend to do."

Albus waved his hand. "Of course. But that's not what I meant."

"Then what *did* you mean?"

He leaned forward and tapped me on the back of my hand. "Apprenticeship changes a   
person. As a student or as a master. Minerva and I--we were never the same,   
afterwards. And we were neither of us prepared."

Hrr. "It is a trifle strange, sir. But we shall adapt to it."

He wrapped his fingers around my hand, held it still. "Severus. Minerva came to   
me an adult, a witch in the full bloom of her power, and yet we nearly consumed   
each other."

If they had, it had never seemed so to me, as a boy. But then, I had hardly been   
in a position to know. I twitched my hand in his. "And Potter is young yet," I   
said, "and therefore vulnerable." Vulnerable to me--that was a terrible thought.   
He had proven himself against Voldemort, and no matter how I disliked him, I would   
not see him fall to me.

Albus was watching me closely. I swirled my whisky with my free hand. "Do you   
think I do not know what it is to be consumed? Do you think I would permit it?"

"No," he said, sitting back, picking up his own drink. "No, I don't. And part of   
me rejoices in that--but part of me is afraid for you."

"Afraid?" I raised my eyebrows. "For me?"

"For you, and for him." He shook his head and let out a long breath. "Together,   
you could be immensely powerful. Or you could destroy each other. Only time will   
tell."

I took a sip. "And yet you encouraged him in this. Knowing what it could be--"

"I encouraged you both."

I narrowed my eyes and stilled the crawling of my skin. Albus, my lord in all but   
name, and his infernal 'encouragement'--

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I suppose you did."

* * *

When I returned to my chambers, Potter was sitting at the desk I had bought for   
him. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to think of places Draco could be," he answered, nibbling on the end of a   
quill.

"Go to bed," I said, irritated. I wanted no reminders of Draco and no part of my   
obnoxiously noble apprentice.

"I'm not tired yet, Master," he said, and scribbled something on his roll of   
parchment.

Blast the boy--I walked over to him and pressed my left palm to his forehead.   
Pain shot up my arm. "Sleep," I hissed, through clenched teeth, and he collapsed   
against me.

"Mobilicorpus."

I gestured at Potter's bedroom, and his body floated inside.

I sat down at his desk and read over the list.

The Shrieking Shack.  
Italy with Pansy.  
The Forbidden Forest.  
Muggle London.  
The caves on the Malfoy lands.

Hrr. Not a bad list, all told.

I'd have Hagrid tell the centaurs to search the Forest. Pansy had already been   
owled, and the Ministry would have checked the caves and the Shack, if I knew   
Arthur Weasley.

Muggle London.

Now, there was somewhere I hadn't thought of, and likely no one else, either.

Perhaps Potter and I should venture out and take a look around.


	8. London Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One tube station, hold the Dementors.

For the first time in months, I was not in Master's white, but in the dark grey I   
had long preferred in my Muggle clothing. It felt strange, not to look down and   
see white on myself.

I headed for the kitchens to procure breakfast from the house-elves, and perhaps a   
cream cake to bribe my ridiculously sulky apprentice. He'd been quite put out at   
being sent to bed like a child two nights ago, but it was high time he put it   
behind him.

Good God, was I really thinking of plying Potter with cream cake to make him   
forgive me? I was losing my mind.

Unfortunately for me, that insufferable woman Trelawney was fluttering around the   
kitchens, waving her hands in despair over the lack of the perfect tea for reading   
tea-leaves. I entertained a few malicious thoughts of introducing cannabis to her   
tea supplies, and made a mental note to implement that as soon as possible. I   
should be able to pick some up from Mayhew in London, and I had tea in my chambers   
that should suit.

No doubt it would improve her predictions, which at present consisted of her   
rolling her eyes wildly and declaiming that Harry Potter was *doomed*, absolutely   
*doomed*.

I helped myself to porridge and suggested sweetly that she ask Minerva for some   
good fortune-telling tea. Hah. Minerva would probably turn her into a newt.

I sent a house-elf to bring a bowl of porridge to Potter--"And a cream cake, too,"   
I heard myself call after the elf, to my utter disgust.

Perhaps there was something to Albus's notions about consumptive change.

I finished my porridge slowly, mentally reviewing the places I knew in Muggle   
London. Not many--I tended to go out, get what I needed, and come back. I   
doubted Potter knew it any better--but then, neither would Draco.

I heard familiar footfalls behind me. "Potter."

"Master."

I turned to him, and he gave me a thin smile. I wondered if I looked like that   
when I smiled. "Are you ready?" 

"Yes."

We left the kitchens and headed for Hogsmeade on foot; from there, we would Floo   
to Diagon Alley, stop at Gringott's, and go out through the Leaky Cauldron. "Do   
you know London?" I asked, as we walked.

"No, sir. Not really. But--Draco's not very good at hiding."

"In a city the size of London, Mr. Potter, nearly anyone can hide. The question   
is--where would he go?"

Potter frowned. "If I were trying to hide from wizards," he said, "I'd go to the   
place with the most Muggles."

"And where would that be?"

"I don't know."

Hrr. You'd think a boy raised by Muggles would know something about the Muggle   
world; I'd've done better to have Granger along. "We can use Investigo to set   
tracers throughout the city, but it may be wise to have my source initiate a   
search for him."

"Your source?"

"A Muggle named Jack Mayhew. Runs an import-export business." I raised an   
eyebrow at Potter's expression of surprise. "What is it now?"

"I can't imagine you associating with Muggles, sir."

Ignorant boy. "I can't imagine associating with *you*, Mr. Potter, and yet here we   
are."

He had the grace to look ashamed of himself.

* * *

We stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron into Muggle London. I turned my face to the   
sky, closing my eyes. Daylight through my eyelids was the color of my own blood. 

"Master?" said Potter. "Where are we going?"

I exhaled slowly, keeping my eyes closed. "First to Mayhew's, and then we will   
need a grounding point for Investigo." 

Potter shifted beside me. "Investigo requires an anchor, sir. Do we have one for   
him?"

"We have me," I said. I had been entwined in Draco's life since before he was   
born, and he had scarcely drawn a breath I did not know about since he was eleven   
years old. It would have to be enough; we had nothing else.

"I'll have to cast it, then," Potter said. 

"Yes." Investigo was a difficult spell; he would anchor it to me and through me   
to the grounding point, and then spin trace-lines out in a wide radius over the   
city. If it worked, we could then check the tracers through me at any time, from   
anywhere. *If* it worked.

"I've only done it once before." I could hear him breathing. "To find Hermione--  
last year, when the Death Eaters--"

"Yes." I opened my eyes and looked at him. Young as he was, the boy had both the   
strength and the will necessary to do this. "A grounding point, if you will, Mr.   
Potter," I said. I rather hoped he would have enough sense to think of the obvious   
one, but with Potter, one could never tell.

He frowned and looked thoughtful. "Platform Nine and Three Quarters--would that   
work?"

"No," I answered, unaccountably pleased that he had selected the same location I   
had. "It is not, strictly speaking, part of the Muggle world. King's Cross,   
however, will do." 

We set off. I noticed Potter watching attractive young women surreptitiously, but   
said nothing. After a few nervous glances at me, he ceased on his own. Good.   
The boy needed to learn self-control if he was to survive a serious apprenticeship   
in Defence; there is nothing more dangerous than a lack of control.

It is a crime of which I have often been guilty.

Jack Mayhew worked out of an abandoned railway building not far from King's Cross.   
Some years ago, he and I had made a deal: I cast a glamour over the place so that   
he was left undisturbed by the authorities, and in return, he supplied me with   
anything I needed from the Muggle world. There are certain pharmaceuticals and   
potion ingredients easier to acquire from Muggles. 

He looked up as I came in. "Snape. Didn't expect to see you for a few months."

"I found myself in need unexpectedly."

He stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking and jerked his chin at Potter. "That   
who I think it is?" Muggle though he was, Mayhew kept abreast of the wizarding   
world; I rather suspected that I was not the only wizard he kept supplied, though   
of course we never spoke of it.

"Harry Potter. My apprentice."

"Huh." He looked Potter over, then turned back to me. "You need the usual?"

"Yes."

He reached under the counter and began organizing my regular order: nickel-cadmium   
batteries, acetylsalicylic acid in a powdered form, agar, unenchanted wormwood,   
laudanum, colloidal gold. "Add some cannabis sativa, if you have it," I said, and   
he looked up at me, then tossed a bag of it into my order.

"Cost you extra."

"I am aware of that." I surveyed the contents of the order. "Adequate. Now.   
One more thing." I held out a photograph of Draco Malfoy that I had charmed to   
stillness. "I need to find this boy. He may be in London. Can you help?"

Mayhew nodded and took the picture. "'Course." He studied it for a minute. "The   
Malfoy boy, isn't he?"

"Yes. He's quite possibly mentally unstable, so be careful." I rolled up my   
sleeve and held out my Mark. "He'll have the Dark Mark tattooed on his left arm.   
If you find him--or *hear* of him--send me word by the barman at the Leaky   
Cauldron at once." I rolled my sleeve back down. "You'll be compensated   
handsomely, I assure you."

He nodded, and I indicated the box containing my order. "Hold that for me. I'll   
be back for it later today."

* * * 

King's Cross was infuriatingly busy; Potter and I stopped near the divider for   
Platform Nine and Three Quarters. "Here?" he asked, looking at the crowds of   
Muggles.

"It will do." I held up my left hand before my chest, and he took it in his,   
firmly. I closed my eyes, and felt his wand touch my skin, and heard him whisper   
"Investigo!"

I felt as though I were being torn apart. My blood vessels unraveled to run   
through the city, following the roads; my intestines twisted like the river and   
the sewers. Potter's power reached through me, setting the tracers, tying them to   
the grounding point, searching for Draco.

And then my Mark burned sharply and so painfully that I heard myself cry out; felt   
Potter's hand torn from my own.

I came to myself on the platform, Potter kneeling beside me, shaking. "Potter."

"I'm fine," he said, turning towards me. "Just--my scar--" 

His scar was burnt nearly as black as his hair. I rolled up my left sleeve and   
looked at the Mark. "Voldemort," I said. "Well, we wanted to know if he was   
still alive. I'd say the answer is a resounding yes." I got to my feet and   
reached down to assist him. "We must have touched him while looking for Draco."

He shook his head and blinked furiously, as if to clear his vision. As I watched,   
his face paled. "Dementor."

"What?"

He pointed over my shoulder. "Dementor. On the platform."

I felt the cold fingers grasping at my thoughts before I even finished turning.

The dementors, as Albus had predicted, had gone over to Voldemort as soon as they   
had the opportunity. Whatever their loyalties now, they undoubtedly did not   
involve obeying myself or Potter.

This one was about a third of the way down the platform, moving slowly through the   
people boarding the train. The Muggles didn't seem to see it, but they could sense   
it: one man dropped his possessions and fled as the dementor brushed by him,   
another began sobbing, and people began to move out of its way. Beyond a doubt,   
it was heading straight for us. I reviewed our options: we couldn't Disapparate   
in a public place, and the Patronus charm was rather obvious--not to mention we   
were both weak from the contact with Voldemort. We would have to run for it; our   
physical condition was at present better than our magical one. I caught Potter's   
hand as he raised his wand. "Idiot! Think!"

He looked around. "Muggles?"

"Muggles." I shoved him, hard. "Run, boy. We've got to get to Mayhew."

We ran out of the station, and the dementor followed us, people scattering before   
it like leaves before wind. Ahead of me, Potter stumbled and fell; I hauled him to   
his feet. 

"Expecto," he gasped, trying to turn and face the dementor. "Expec--"

That damnable Gryffindor bravado was going to get us killed. "Shut *up*," I spat,   
and shoved him forward again. "For the love of God, keep running." 

The dementor was close, now; its empty chill tangible. I debated trying for the   
Cauldron, with its access to Diagon Alley, but Mayhew's was closer. I prayed he   
still kept illegal firearms on the premises; neither Potter nor I was in decent   
shape to cast a spell as difficult as Patronus. Beside me, Potter ran with no   
further protest, but I could sense the panic in him--his breathing was a touch too   
fast, his steps uneven. 

Only a fool does not fear the dementors. Had I had time, I would have been   
relieved at his fear.

"Alohomora!" he called out, and the building opened for us. 

Mayhew looked up from his bookkeeping as we came in. "What the--"

"Gun," I said, as Potter took a guard position by the door. "Dammit, man! Gun!"

He handed me his own, and I turned and emptied it into the head of the dementor as   
it came through the door. Potter kicked it into the street and slammed the door.   
"Will that kill it?"

"No," I said, "but it will keep it down long enough." I turned to Mayhew and   
handed him back his weapon. "Get out of here for a day or so," I said. "That   
thing out there isn't very bright. If no one is here when it wakes, it will leave   
and not return."

He nodded sharply and locked his books into a wall safe before leaving through the   
back--a good man, Mayhew. Knows when not to ask questions. I charmed my order to   
pocket size, and studied Potter. He looked paler than I had seen him since the   
night Lucius Malfoy died, but relatively composed. "Can you Apparate?"

"Yes," he said.

"Good. Hogsmeade, then, at the edge of Hogwarts grounds. We have to get to   
Albus."

He nodded and Disapparated, and I followed a second later. "Can they find us   
here?" he asked.

"No," I said. "Likely not. We should make haste, however."

* * *

Albus listened quietly, stroking Fawkes with one finger, as Potter told him what   
we had done, and what we had seen. I, for my part, remained silent. Harry Potter,   
for all his youth, was already a seasoned campaigner; he knew how to make a   
detailed field report.

At length, Potter fell silent. Albus folded his hands on his desk. "Is the   
Investigo spell still operative?" he asked.

"I don't know, sir," Potter said, and looked to me. I held out my hand, and he   
laid his own in it. "Reperio," he said, and the spell within me activated, the   
connection between anchor and grounding point spinning out like silk from a   
spider, the web of tracers throughout London--

Potter released me. "Yes," he said, to Dumbledore. "The spell's intact."

"Good," he said. "We may be fortunate in your choice of anchor, then." He looked   
at me, with something like compassion in his face. "You are both tied to young   
Draco, of course, but also to Voldemort. We now know he is in London, hiding   
among Muggles. See if you can determine where--when you have both recovered, of   
course. You must be exhausted..."

He continued rambling as he ushered us out of the door; we stood outside his rooms   
blinking at each other in confusion. I have known Albus most of my life, and I   
have yet to determine how he manages that particular trick.

"I hate it when he does that," Potter said.

Hah. "Come on, then," I said, and headed for the dungeons.

Back in my quarters, I searched my personal stores until I found an unopened   
package of loose-leaf tea. I spelled it open and replaced a quarter of it with   
the cannabis I'd acquired in London. Not even Voldemort and dementors could drive   
the opportunity to torment Trelawney from my mind.

"Master," Potter said, "what are you *doing*?"

"Preparing a gift for Trelawney," I said, weighing the bag in my hand.

He looked from me to the doctored tea, and back. "You are..." Words seemed to   
fail him for a moment, and he shook his head before settling on "...worse than the   
Weasley twins."

"I have had a great deal more practice," I said, shaking the package to mix the   
leaves.

"You realize that she gives that stuff to *students*, don't you?" he asked.

"I'm counting on it, Mr. Potter." I checked the mix with a critical eye. "I   
should have thought of this *years* ago."

He made a choked noise.

"If you tell anyone," I said, adding a little more cannabis, "I shall turn you   
into a myrrh tree permanently, and use your secretions in poisonous concoctions."   
I weighed the bag again, shifting it between my hands. Yes. Perfect.

"I wasn't going to," he said. "Master-Apprentice confidentiality clause. Sir."

I looked away from the tea and saw he was laughing. Well. No doubt he needed it,   
after a morning such as ours. I bared my teeth at him, and he laughed harder, so   
I tossed him the tea-and-cannabis. "Don't worry about the students. It tends to   
dampen magical powers for an hour or so--though it has been known to increase the   
accuracy of divination." 

He held up the bag and looked at it. "Trelawney needs all the help she can get,"   
he said, and then sobered. "Master?"

I raised an eyebrow at him. "Yes?"

"You love Draco, don't you?"

I looked at him for a long time. I had lost five--only five--out of all the   
children I had taught to Voldemort; all five had been the sons of loyal Death   
Eaters.

Of the five, only Draco Malfoy still lived.

I remembered Albus's solemn expression when he offered me the position as the Head   
of my House. Out of my father's generation had come Tom Riddle; out of mine had   
come the Death Eaters.

Out of Draco's would come the honor of Slytherin House. I had sworn it to Albus   
and to myself, years ago.

"Give the tea to Trelawney, Mr. Potter."

I could see him restrain himself from pressing me about Draco. Instead, he mock-  
saluted, and I felt the sudden, ridiculous urge to smile at him.

Hrr. If this kept up, I'd run the risk of becoming fond of the boy.


	9. Blood Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poker in a holding pattern.

Over the next few days, Potter and I kept an eye on Voldemort; a brief touch every   
morning and evening to ensure that he had not moved. We could do nothing more on   
that front without revealing ourselves to him, although we could and did scan for   
Draco Malfoy as well. Wednesday morning, Albus received a reply from Pansy   
Parkinson, saying that Draco had told her he was coming to stay, but that he had   
never arrived.

Her mistress likely would not have allowed it in any case, but I suspected Pansy   
of duplicity. She was fully capable of providing Draco with the means to hide   
himself, either in London or somewhere in Europe. That evening I called her young   
sister to my office. 

She hovered in the doorway, her eyes wide. "Miss Parkinson. Do come in."

She entered and stopped in front of my desk, her hands clasped before her.

"Sit down, child," I said. "You've done nothing wrong."

"I didn't think I had, sir," she said, settling into a chair. "I--this is about   
Draco, isn't it?"

Good girl. "Yes." I folded my hands and studied her. She was a pretty child,   
not as sharp-featured as her elder sibling. "How close are you to your sister?"

She shrugged. "Pansy's a lot older."

"Do you think she would tell you if she knew where Draco Malfoy was?"

Her face was less young, now, more thoughtful. Her eyes narrowed. "I don't know,   
sir. Maybe. If I asked her the right way."

I leaned forward. "And would she tell you *where*?"

Jessica twisted her fingers around each other and chewed on her lip. "I don't   
think so. Not unless I swore not to tell anyone." She looked up at me   
thoughtfully. "But there are ways to tell someone without telling them--aren't   
there, sir?"

"Of course, Miss Parkinson." I crossed my left arm over my chest, pressing my   
Mark against my breastbone. "Now, child, if your sister gave you this   
information, would you find some way to let me know?"

"Yes, sir," she said. She frowned. "I'll want points for Slytherin, of course,"   
she said. "Nothing without its price."

I smiled. "Slytherin to the bone, Miss Parkinson. I cannot give you points now;   
they would be posted, and this must remain secret. However." I stood and walked   
around my desk to stand next to her. "You will receive five points for agreeing to   
undertake the project, five more if you can verify for us that Pansy does or does   
not know the whereabouts of Draco Malfoy, a further five if she knows and reveals   
the location, and five for keeping me fully informed." I tapped my left forefinger   
against my right shoulder. "And five for your trouble, whether you are successful   
or not. I know that this is not an easy task." I extended my hand to her. "You   
have my word on it, Miss Parkinson."

She looked at my hand, then met my eyes and said, slowly, "Add another five   
because I must wait for those points until it's over. And another thirty for   
betraying the confidence of a family member. Sir." Her voice trembled, but she   
never dropped her eyes.

"Done," I said, without hesitation. I was pleased she had asked--the child would   
go far, if she kept this up. "Of course, you realize that if you do not keep me   
informed, I shall be unable to distribute any points whatsoever." Nothing, Miss   
Parkinson, without its price.

She nodded and shook my hand. "I usually owl Pansy on Fridays, so I'll need to   
hurry. If--if you want me to start right away."

"It's a delicate job," I answered, "but time is short. Tread carefully." I put   
my hand on her shoulder. "I have confidence in you, Miss Parkinson."

She nodded, blushed, and dashed out.

Ah, students.

* * *

Potter slammed his fist on his desk, and I looked up from my book. "Voldemort,"   
he said. "Why aren't we going after him? Why are we waiting for him to get   
stronger?"

I closed my book over my finger. "We know nothing about the situation, Mr.   
Potter. Investigo does not give us an exact location, and we do not know what   
forces he has gathered." 

He ran his hands through his hair. "And all we can do is check in, is that it?   
Every day--yes, yes, Minister, he's still there." He appeared rather wild, and I   
raised my eyebrows. "Can't we--"

"No." Arthur Weasley had the Aurors scouting for Voldemort; until they located   
him, nothing could be done. Potter knew this.

He stood and began pacing the room. "We have to--I can't even warn Hermione! And   
Ron's not telling me anything, and--"

His face went white. "And--" He looked at me, his mouth open, his breath coming   
fast.

"Yes," I said. "You see it now. You see what we have been through." I rose to   
meet him, gripped his shoulders, ignored the spasm of pain in my arm. "Hogwarts.   
The center of his power; his home within our world. And the home of the three   
greatest threats to him."

"Dumbledore. Me." He swallowed. "You."

I laid my palm over the scar on his forehead. "Make a weapon of your fear, Mr.   
Potter. We will need it, in time."

He threw my hand off impatiently. "We don't *have* time! Voldemort--"

I cut him off. "This is pointless! If you're so damned concerned, boy, start   
thinking of effective ways to spy on him once he's found, since I can no longer   
perform that duty. Put that brain of yours to use for once." 

He shoved me and I caught myself against the edge of my desk. "Why don't *you*,   
damn you--you do *nothing*, you just wait, like an idiot--"

This was a Potter I had not seen since the war: savage, willful. Thoughtless. It   
had been his one true weakness, though he compensated for it well. Still. Unlike   
his friend Weasley, he had no patience, no head for strategy. It fell to me,   
then, to teach it--mastery of the mind, magical and otherwise.

I rose, twisted, backhanded him across the face. He went down--stupid boy. He   
*knew* my strength. I stood over him. "That is *enough*," I said. "I was a   
Death Eater before you were even born, and a traitor when you sucked at your   
mother's breast. Do not speak to me of what I do and do not do."

He spat at my feet. Blood ran from his lip to the stone floor, and he blotted his   
mouth with his hand. After a moment, he raised his eyes to mine. "You want   
someone *thinking* about it, Snape, you tell Hermione. She's cleverer than either   
of us." 

Hah. The boy had spirit. I smiled at him. "She's your friend, Mr. Potter. I'll   
have nothing to do with it." I stepped over him and retrieved my book.

"I hate you," he said, his voice rough and bitter.

The sharp smell of blood rose through the cold air.

"I know," I answered.

* * *

Saturday evening found us outside Hagrid's hut. Inside, that monstrous beast he   
calls Fang barked, and then fell silent. Hagrid knew we were here; he would keep   
his creatures from troubling us, and out here Hogwarts' ghosts could not find us.   
Potter shivered by my side, and his breath frosted in the air.

"Do I have to do this?" he said, and for a moment he was a child under the   
moonlight. And then he shifted, and the shadows on his face aged him at once.

Easy, at times, to forget he was only eighteen. 

"You must," I answered. "I do not undertake this lightly, Mr. Potter. This is   
powerful magic, and you must learn it." And its counter, of course, but I did not   
say that; it did not suit my purposes to say it.

He mouthed the words of the spell at me and took a step backwards. "I don't   
really want to turn you into a tree," he said. "Not--"

I raised an eyebrow at him. "I've seen your Transfiguration marks, Potter.   
Minerva assures me that you have never killed a live subject, and that you are   
able to restore transfigured objects to their initial state. View this as an   
exercise."

He narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth at me, and I knew that face; I had seen   
it in battle. He said only "Yes, Master," but I heard the fury behind it.

Good. Let him use that anger against me; it would be his strength.

I set my feet shoulder-width apart and waited.

"*Balsamo myrrha*!"

The boy's reputation as a wizard was not wholly without merit; over the years, he   
had learned to cast complex spells correctly on the initial attempt.

My skin stiffened, twisted; I felt my body blaze with pain and then cease as the   
transfiguration took hold. I took one last breath and wondered, briefly, if this   
was how Lucius Malfoy had felt with my hands around his throat. 

And then there was nothing left of me but my mind.

The nerves of a tree are not the nerves of a man; they are composed of wood and   
water and sap, of subtle pressures and of vibration. I could feel Potter's hand   
on me, hear his voice. *Master. Are you in there?*

I could not answer. If he had taken an axe to me, I could not have stopped him.

*Veritas!*

And I was a man once more, looking at my apprentice with a man's eyes. His hand   
left my chest as I drew breath once more, and he said, quietly, "You didn't   
scream. I screamed."

I held out my palms to him; my nails had gouged blood. As he watched, they   
healed, leaving only pale new-moon scars in their place. "I have been   
transfigured before," I said. 

"You--how do you heal so fast?"

I laughed. "A combination of things, Mr. Potter. Transfiguration makes the body   
fluid, for one. For another, only a fool spies on a mass murderer without taking   
precautions; I cast a rapid-healing spell on myself years ago. For the last--  
well. For the last, I blame my family. We all of us heal quickly."

He let his fingers hover over my left palm without touching, as if he did not   
believe the scars were real and was afraid to find out. "Will I ever meet your   
family?"

"A cousin or two, perhaps, if our paths cross. My parents and siblings are dead."   
I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering. "Now. Transfigure me again, Mr.   
Potter, but this time, do not change me back for several minutes."

I inhaled, and Potter raised his wand. "*Balsamo myrrha*!"

I let myself flow into it, waited until the transfiguration completed, and then I   
focussed and ended it with one sharp thought, one powerful thrust of magic.

Potter cursed and jumped back. "How the *hell*--"

I could not answer right away; it is not an easy thing to end a Horrific   
Transfiguration, and my body felt torn apart. He stepped close and slid his arm   
around my shoulders, offering support.

I might have felt gratitude, had the contact not made my Mark burn viciously.

"I will teach you how to do that," I said, when I could speak. "It is not easy."

"I can see that," he said, and his expression was wry.

I straightened, shrugged off his touch. "The mind, Mr. Potter, is your most   
powerful weapon, but it is a difficult one to master." I reached out my hand, let   
my fingers brush his scar. My Mark flared again. "Mastery of the mind--your   
friend Mr. Longbottom's parents had bravery, Potter, and discipline, but not   
mastery. They could not keep themselves whole and sane."

He nodded, and I dropped my hand and stepped back.

"Now. How do you think I did that?"

* * *

Three days later, Minerva stormed into my office. "Severus!" 

"Yes?" 

"Perhaps you can explain why half my students have been useless this past week."

I raised my eyebrows, surprised that it had taken her this long to decide that I   
was responsible; she ought to know me better than that. "I can't imagine what you   
mean."

She slammed her hand on my desk. "Dammit, Severus! I've got the fourth-year   
Hufflepuffs and the fifth-year Ravenclaws after Divination this term, and none of   
them have been able to manage a thing. What did you do? Add a potion to   
Trelawney's tea?"

"Of course not."

"Severus Snape, I swear to God--"

"Minerva."

"What?"

"I swear to you that I did not add any potions to Trelawney's tea."

She stepped back. She didn't believe me; it was all over her face. After a   
moment, she sat down across from me. "No *potions*. I see." She rubbed her   
forehead. "Will you tell me what you *did* do?" she said, and all the anger was   
gone from her voice.

I leaned back and studied her for a moment. "I did nothing that could harm the   
children."

"I know," she said. "I know, Severus, but--you tread a very fine line, at times.   
Don't force me to go to Albus over this."

I smiled grimly. "I have the utmost respect for Professor Trelawney's work, of   
course. I knew she was running short on tea for her Divination classes, so--"

Minerva held up her hand for me to stop. "Cannabis tea." She sounded weary.

I spread my hands apart, as if in surrender. "As you say."

She buried her face in her hands. "You will be the death of me yet."

I threw my head back and laughed. "I hope not, Minerva. I hope not."

"How much did you give her?" Her voice was muffled by her hands.

"About two weeks' supply. Perhaps three."

She dropped her hands from her face, and she looked grave. "Severus, was Harry   
involved in this?"

"Yes." I couldn't imagine why she was asking; it was hardly relevant.

"I thought so. It sounds like him."

Well, that was surprising. "I beg your pardon?"

"The execution is you, of course; Harry's not that subtle. But I've known you   
since you were a boy, Severus; it's not your style of prank."

I raised my eyebrows. "Because it doesn't involve a potion?"

"Because it doesn't involve humiliation," she said.

I crossed my arms and tapped my fingers against my shoulders. "Ah. You may have   
a point. Continue."

She laid one hand on my desk, palm open and down, pressed flat to the wood. "All   
I am saying is--be *careful*. It's a hard thing, to keep from bleeding into one's   
master. I imagine it's just as hard to keep from bleeding into one's student.   
Don't change too much."

I made no reply. After a moment, she stood and swept out of the room.

I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, breathed out once, and held it, counting   
slowly. At fifty, I inhaled again, and thought of the boy.

Potter.

My apprentice.

Blood on the floor, in spittle; blood of a foe in Voldemort's veins. My Mark   
burning like acid on my skin, my skin turning to bark and my blood to sap--

My apprentice, bleeding into me, his magic twisting me outwards with Investigo,   
his reading and his research and the hot familiar feel of his hatred--and the   
cooler, unfamiliar feel of his companionship.

My. Apprentice.


	10. Looking Through Windows for Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More blood. More Albion. More pranksterism. Possibly some minor plot advancement.

Shortly before the Easter holiday, I entered the rooms I shared with my apprentice   
to find him seated next to the Weasley girl. She looked at me and blushed,   
leaping to her feet. "Professor Snape. Sir." 

I inclined my head. "Miss Weasley." I did not ask what she was doing there;   
Potter sat, pale and unmoving, next to the place she had vacated. I stood between   
her and the door; she had to brush past me as she hurried out. Hah.

"I hope," I said, as soon as the door closed behind her, "that you and Miss   
Weasley are *not* romantically involved."

"No, sir," he said. His hands were white-knuckled.

"Don't lie to me, Apprentice Potter."

He unclenched his fists. "I'm not. I just--I *wish* we were. I--" He broke off   
and put his head in his hands. 

I flicked one finger against my shoulder. "If you are lacking in companionship,   
you might consider Minerva McGonagall." He dropped his hands and stared at me; I   
smirked. "You are both on the staff here. She's certainly a more appropriate   
choice for a liaison than Miss Weasley." He continued to gape, and I gave a   
dismissive wave. "Go, Potter. Write your love-lorn letter about Miss Weasley to   
Hermione Granger. Pour out your heart." I leaned over, trapping him between my   
body and the chair. "And then let it be."

"Master. I swear to you--she's a friend. Just a friend. I'm not going to owl   
Hermione or anyone else about her."

"Hm." I straightened. "And?" 

He sighed. "She's a student. I won't touch her, sir."

"Good."

He glared at me. "Do you have any idea how frustrating this is?"

"I was eighteen once myself, Potter." I gestured at the pile of essays on his   
desk. "I suggest you complete those before the holiday. I don't expect you'll be   
spending much of the time human."

He threw a quill at me.

* * *

The first Tuesday the students were gone, I headed for Albus's office, hoping for   
a quiet afternoon chat. Perhaps with tea; Albus made even better tea than I did.   
I had nearly reached it when I heard someone calling my name. "Snape!"

Hell. Albion. He had been an annoyance for months, and I'd come to the conclusion   
that working with him was worse than working with Black. At least Black had the   
good sense to let me be whenever possible. "What do you want?"

"Where is Potter?"

I examined my fingernails. "What business is it of yours?"

"It's my business if you're using Dark Arts to control the boy." He leaned in   
closely. "I don't trust you."

"That is no concern of mine." I turned to walk away, but he seized my shoulder   
and spun me around. I threw him into the corridor wall and advanced on him, but   
another hand fell on my shoulder, and Albus spoke in my ear.

"Severus. Enough. I will not have the teaching staff at odds."

"I will not have Potter's apprenticeship interfered with. *Sir*."

Albus raised his eyebrows at me, his expression--as ever--mild and gentle. "Oh,   
now, I'm sure Arthur didn't mean to do *that*."

"All I asked," said Albion, "was where Potter was. And he won't answer me."

Albus waved his hand. "Oh, come now. Severus?"

I folded my arms into my robe. "He is currently behind Hagrid's hut."

"There, now, you see? No problems at all." Albus patted me on the arm.

"I looked there," Albion said. "As you and he have been spending a great deal of   
time there."

I stared at the ceiling and said nothing.

After a long, silent moment, Albus said, "Severus?"

Damn the man. "Oh, for pity's sake, Albus, Potter's old enough to consent to being   
turned into a tree for twelve hours. It's in the curriculum."

Albus gave me a sunny smile. "So it is. And how is he handling it?"

"Quite well, actually," I answered. It was no less than the truth; Potter had   
determined the true reversal of the spell without much trouble; he'd learned the   
thought-structures of the Latinate Transfigurations well, which enabled him to   
deduce counter-curses and structural reversals. All that remained was for him to   
learn to implement the reversal, and we could move on. I was rather proud of him,   
although I certainly did not intend to tell him that.

Albion's voice cut in, disbelieving. "An Horrific? That's--"

"Not forbidden," I said, "provided it is performed by a qualified instructor as   
part of a course in Defence Against the Dark Arts." I stared at him. "I'm sure   
you're aware that Potter *is* a Defence apprentice."

"From what I hear, there's more of the Dark Arts than there is of Defence about   
your curriculum." 

Albus shook his head. "Professor Snape's curriculum--"

I overrode him. "My curriculum was designed with an eye to Potter's strengths,   
including Transfiguration. Good day." I spun on my heel and headed off to the   
dungeons.

"You can't hide from me, Snape," Albion called.

I should hang that man by the heels and slit his throat, and use his blood as   
sauce for my supper. I did not answer. Let the bastard take my silence how he   
would.

I could hear Albus dragging Albion to his office for "a little chat, Arthur, about   
professional respect" as I rounded the corner.

Still, my afternoon had been spoiled, and Albion had to pay for that. I headed   
for my workroom.

* * *

Later that evening, I whispered to my cauldron as I stirred six times counter-  
clockwise. This was the final ingredient: the whisper of the potion-maker,   
sibilant and pure. The fire beneath the cauldron died as I let my left hand fall.

The potion, silver-pale, murmured to itself. Perfect.

As the bottling charm took over, Potter came in. "Master? What are you making?"

I bared my teeth at him. "Paratoxica. Did the spell wear off, or did you manage   
to make it back on your own?"

He sat down on one of the laboratory stools and peered at the cauldron. "Wore   
off. I don't know that one."

"You wouldn't. I developed it just recently."

"What is it for?"

I cut my eyes at him, but decided to answer. "Albion."

"You're poisoning him?"

"No." I let a smile stretch over my face. "No, I'm not. That's precisely the   
point." I caught a bottle out of the air by its chain and held it up to the   
light. "Paratoxica, Mr. Potter, makes the victim *believe* he's been poisoned."

He propped his arms on the table and looked thoughtful. "Albion's probably doing   
this on his own," he said. "Mr. Weasley wouldn't ask him to bother you so much."

"I know," I answered, and frowned.

"So," Potter said, leaning forward, "we need to find out why! He can't get *away*   
with it--we've got to--"

"Mr. Potter, is this how you and Weasley got Granger into all that trouble? I   
always wondered why such a nice studious child was forever wreaking havoc on this   
school. Thank God I've got more sense." 

He scowled, in such precise imitation of his bastard godfather that I was   
startled. 

I raised my eyebrows at him and began reshelving the ingredients of the potion:   
alihotsy, skosh, elderflower, lacewings, dried root of white bryony, viper's   
blood. "All the same," I said, "if you can gain his confidence--" I reached out   
and traced his scar; he pulled away from my touch. I thought of how it had felt   
to strike him, and smiled. Perhaps that was a lesson that would bear repeating,   
if he ever came to trust me too much. "If Albion believes you fear me, all the   
better."

Something hard and alien crossed Potter's face then, before it smoothed out once   
more. "You know I'm afraid of you," he said. "You are my Master, and I--" He   
thumped his chest lightly with one clenched fist. "I don't know all I feel for   
you. But fear is part of it."

Hrr. The boy who had asked me to take him as apprentice--was it nearly a year   
ago?--would never have admitted that. I wondered, not for the first time, what   
changes the apprenticeship brought to him, other than the increased knowledge.

Whatever changes it had brought to me were not yet enough for me to ask.

"I'll find out what he wants," Potter said. "What he *really* wants, this time.   
The Weasleys can't be *that* worried about me; I see Ron nearly every weekend, and   
Ginny almost every *day*, and I send owls."

"Hm." I took a jar of crushed calendula flower off the shelf and held it out to   
him. "Another gift for Trelawney, do you think?" I kept it on hand for its   
medicinal purposes, but it could be used to induce prophecies in those sensitive   
to the currents of time.

He made a face. "Won't do her any good. I saw her make a real prophecy once, and   
she didn't remember anything afterwards." He took the jar from me and studied it.   
"She uses all that damn incense. I wonder why she doesn't use any of the direct   
herbal aids. She must know about them."

I snorted. "She comes from a particular school that disapproves of such things.   
Calendula, jasmine, cannabis, roses--she does not know them, nor does she wish   
to." I plucked the jar from his fingers and shelved it.

"It might help the students, though," he said. "I don't care about her so much,   
but it would have been nice to know that Divination wasn't all incense and moony   
predictions about me dying." He paused for a moment, and then said, "I liked   
Herbology, the past few years."

"It is a useful discipline." I reached into my robes and withdrew a stoppered   
vial. "Blood resin," I said, handing it to him. "Yours." 

I had collected it from him while he was transfigured; blood resin, taken by the   
hands of the transfiguring wizard from the victim. Bound with yarrow, it was a   
powerful intensifier for magic--dangerous, but powerful. 

The blood resin of a man could also be used to control him; it bent the will as   
readily as Imperio.

He turned it over in his hands.

"I would bind it immediately, Potter, if I were you. It is a danger to you,   
pure."

He checked the measurement on the side of the vial and began to set up a cauldron   
next to mine. "Why did you collect it in the first place?" he said, and there was   
an edge to his voice.

"Perhaps because I am a danger to you," I said, "and perhaps, boy, because I am   
Potions Master and blood resin is useful."

He weighed out yarrow and then paused and looked up at me. "Orris as the binding   
agent?"

"Very good." I tilted my head to one side. "And perhaps, Potter, a little   
because I wish you to keep your Potions skills in good order."

He snorted again, and took the orris from the shelf. "My Potions skills are   
pathetic at best. Do you think we could use it to strengthen Investigo?"

I laid my hand on his shoulder, and he tensed under my hand. "Yes, Mr. Potter," I   
said, my voice soft in his ear. "Yes, I think we could."

He shivered, and I let him be while I cleaned my cauldron.

As I scrubbed at it, I noticed that my Mark had not made itself known when I   
touched him. Curious. It still did so when we activated Investigo, but just   
then--

Curious.

* * * 

I speared naked chickens and watched my apprentice out of the corner of my eye.   
He had edged away from me, towards Albion, and flinched every time I made a move   
in his direction.

Hah. The boy could be taught. Nearly a year of driving him to use his fear, to   
turn it into a weapon--and this was the first time I'd seen him use it   
consciously. Perhaps the flinching was not entirely for show--he knew rather more   
about my innards than anyone ought, thanks to Investigo, and I *had* struck him--  
but this would only give it an air of authenticity.

Cybindia leaned in from my other side and stole a chicken, which she toasted over   
a candle flame. I glared at her, and she smiled back, quite unperturbed. If she   
weren't such an insufferable brat, I might call her a friend. "What did you do to   
Harry?" she asked, biting the head from her pilfered chicken.

"Nothing," I said. "If the boy feels like being a fool, I'm not about to stop   
him."

Albion dropped his fork with a clatter and pushed back from the table, his hands   
shaking. "Professor Albion?" Potter sounded young and panicked, and his face was   
pale. "Are you--"

"Poison," Albion rasped, and I crunched bones between my teeth to keep from   
smiling. 

"Nonsense," Cybindia said. "The house-elves would never allow it. Besides, who   
would poison you?"

Potter played it masterfully; his eyes slid to me for a second, and then back to   
Albion, and he stood. "I'll take you to the infirmary, Professor," he said, and   
began to guide Albion to the door behind the staff table. Albion twisted away   
from him, lunging at me, screaming that he was going to kill me with his own two   
hands.

Potter caught him and wrestled him back; for all that the boy was small and   
slight, he was strong. "Sir," he said, his voice pitched low. "Sir, not in front   
of the students. Let me take you to the infirmary. Please. Sir."

Albion, with one final snarl in my direction, yielded. Poppy followed them out,   
and I was left to endure the stares of my colleagues. 

"Severus," Minerva said, and I bared my teeth at her. The hall was silent; none   
of the students were eating or moving. Their eyes were fixed on the head table.   
Minerva leaned close to me and whispered, "Severus. What did you do?"

"Nothing dangerous," I answered. "He'll be fine in a few hours."

Minerva frowned. "Not to Arthur. To Harry. He's terrified of you."

I smiled at her, thin-lipped. "What I do with my apprentice is my business."

She narrowed her eyes at me, but knew better than to pursue the matter. Albus   
ignored the entire exchange. I suspected that he knew--the infuriating man knows   
*everything*--but chose to remain silent.

After dinner, I headed for the Quidditch pitch. Celebrating the success of   
Paratoxica with some high-speed one-man Quidditch sounded like an excellent idea,   
and I proceeded to implement it, leaving my outer robes on the ground. My Nimbus   
2600 was only a year old, and was by far the best broom I had ever owned. I have   
always been fond of the Nimbus line.

I released the Snitch, which immediately zipped towards the far end of the pitch.   
I took off after it, hooking one leg around my broom so that I could enter a roll   
at a moment's notice.

I had been in the air three-quarters of an hour when I finally managed to catch up   
to the Snitch. I came in below it and used my hooked foot to spin my broom   
downwards and myself upwards, spinning into the air with arms outstretched. The   
Snitch slammed into one palm, and I twisted into a dive and caught my broom one-  
handed on the way down. I swung myself back astride and landed at the edge of the   
pitch, just as Potter emerged from the shadows. "Master," he said, "what *was*   
that?" 

I shook my hair back from my face and caught my breath before answering. "An Ugu   
Roll," I said. "Invented by Ugu the Shoemaker less than a century ago."

"I've never seen it before."

"Stunt flyers will do it. You'll probably never see it in tournament play,   
though. Too risky, and too difficult." I flicked one finger against the Snitch,   
remembering. "It was, perhaps, the only thing I could do on a broomstick that   
your father could not. He was the better Seeker, but I could perform an Ugu   
Roll."

"You were a Seeker?"

I snorted. "Until I grew too tall, yes. After that, I played Keeper."

He crossed his arms and looked up at me. "The Headmaster once told me you were   
jealous of my father's prowess at Quidditch."

I nodded. "True enough. I beat him only once as Seeker, out of all the times we   
played. That is a bitter pill to swallow, for a young boy. Now. What can you   
tell me about Albion?" 

"Later," he said, taking the Snitch from me and tossing it into the air. "Accio   
broom!" His Firebolt smacked into his outstretched hand. "Care to play, Master?"

I took to the sky before the sounds had even died on the air, Potter close on my   
heels.

He would have won the game of Seek, but he played clean, and I did not. I took a   
rather vindictive pleasure, actually, in colliding with him hard enough to send   
him spinning off the pitch while I took the Snitch.

Being rather too tall and heavy to be a Seeker in actual tournament play has its   
advantages on occasion.

Still, Potter was in a good humour when I landed next to him. "You cheater," he   
said, without heat, and I bowed to him with all the grace I could muster after   
nearly two hours of flying. I understood his good mood; flying always did the   
same thing to me. 

"Albion?" I said.

"God, you're single-minded." He fell in beside me as we walked back towards the   
castle. "Albion," he began, "is a hero."

I snorted.

"I'm serious. He thinks--he thinks I had too much put on me at a young age, and   
he wants to protect me. From you, from anyone who pressures me or threatens me.   
He thinks I've had no chance to be a child."

I studied him. "He is correct that you have had much asked of you."

Potter shrugged. "It wasn't anything I couldn't handle. Even--even when Cedric   
died." 

"Cedric Diggory was only the first," I said.

"Yes," he said, and his shoulder knocked against my arm. "He was murdered in   
front of me for no reason whatsoever. A *spare*, Voldemort said." His voice   
softened and lowered; I could hear hate seething in its depths. "He wasn't a   
spare *anything*. He was honest and decent and he was the first person I ever   
really saw die." He took a deep breath. "Even now, the moment he died is the   
worst moment of my life. Worse than my parents dying--I don't remember that, not   
really." He shook himself. "Anyway. That's Albion's deal. He wants to protect   
me."

I walked beside him in silence for a moment, and then said, "I shouldn't let him,   
if I were you."

"I wasn't planning on it, Master. I'd rather protect myself."

"Good."

"I knew you'd agree."

* * *

Final exams were upon us, and the students--those not exhausted from revising--  
were twice as obstreperous as usual. Potter, as the most junior member of the   
teaching staff, had been tasked with controlling them in the hallways. He entered   
our rooms late one evening and flung himself into his desk chair, jarring my elbow   
as he did. I shoved him away, and he propped his chin on his hand and asked, "Why   
do those Sindar brats hate me so much?" 

I set down my quill. The sixth- and seventh-year Slytherins caused little trouble   
for Potter; I suspected that they feared him. The younger students were, for the   
most part, also fearful.

The first-year Sindar cousins, however, were taking advantage of end-of-term   
jitters by making Potter's life rather more hellish than strictly necessary.   
"What have they done now?" Two days ago, I'd caught them hexing chairs in the   
classroom where Potter tutored for Charms and Defence, and taken five points from   
each of them for being so careless as to let me find them.

"What *haven't* they done? They've tried just about every minor curse in the   
book. Lucky I'm good at dodging and not afraid to take points from my own House."

I raised my eyebrows, unsure if he was aware of what he'd said. He did not appear   
to have noticed it. "Hm," I answered. "Curse them back, why don't you? And with   
something nasty."

"I'm on the *staff*," he said. "As you like to point out if I so much as glance   
at Ginny."

"Oh, come off it, Potter. I curse students all the time. Particularly when   
chasing young lovers out of bushes." I have several extremely startling and   
rather painful curses that I use for that. "Ask your friend Weasley about it.   
For that matter, ask Miss Granger."

He looked faintly horrified, and I went back to writing.

"What I can't understand," he said, after a moment, "is why they hate me so much.   
I haven't done anything to them."

I sighed and put the quill down again. The boy was in a talkative mood; on nights   
like these, I was fortunate to sneak ten minutes' work in edgewise. "I suppose   
you wouldn't know." He'd grown up with Muggles; they wouldn't've known to tell   
him. His father would have, of course, but never had the chance. I rubbed the   
bridge of my nose.

"Know what?"

"The Sindar line split off from the Potter line about two centuries back, and   
declared a feud. It's never been reconciled; the family split nearly down the   
middle. The Potter half kept the name and the land; the others renamed themselves   
and moved away."

"So," he said, frowning, "they hate me because of something someone did two   
hundred years ago?"

I shook my head and went to the cabinet to fetch the Name Scroll. "They hate you   
because you're a Potter. Here." I handed him the scroll, and he unrolled it   
carefully. "You'll have to trace your father's line," I said. "You aren't on it;   
you're halfblooded."

He narrowed his eyes at me.

"I didn't enchant the damn thing, Potter. It's one of Salazar Slytherin's little   
toys." I sat down next to him and touched my finger to the parchment. "James   
Potter," I said, and his name appeared. I ran my finger up the paternal line,   
watching the names flash by, until I came to a label: The Sundering.

And there was the Sindar line, where none had been before, and the Potter line was   
diminished.

Potter brushed my hand out of the way and ran back down the pathways to his   
father, and then up the maternal line. Ah. This should be interesting.

"Sapphira Snape?"

"Your grandmother."

He rested his finger on her name for a moment, and let the parchment re-roll.   
"Just tell me."

I did not pretend not to understand him. "Sapphira, your grandmother, was my   
father's first cousin."

"So we're related."

"Yes."

"And no one ever told me."

I took the scroll from him. "Potter, your father was a *pureblood*. My position   
on the actual purity of the blood aside, the pureblood community is a small one.   
You're related, through your father, to every pureblooded wizard in Britain."

He made a face. "Even Draco?"

I laughed. "Even Draco. Narcissa Malfoy was your father's third cousin, I   
believe, through Isolde Dumbledore. Although the Potters haven't crossed with the   
Malfoy line directly in a few hundred years." I returned the scroll to its place   
on my shelf, and shrugged. 

Potter fastened onto something I had said like a dog with a bone. "Purity of   
blood. I read your book."

"I know." He'd read it at least twice, but had never before offered to discuss   
it.

"You said purebloods actually interbred with non-humans."

"Mm. Yes. Outside genetic material comes in through the non-humans or partial   
humans; not through Muggle-born or part-blood wizards." I steepled my fingers and   
studied him over them. "They were magic, Potter. Goblins and vampires and veela   
and giants--all of them, magic. The purest of blood, some said. Others, of   
course, denied that any such mixing existed." I eyed him lazily. "Professor   
Flitwick is one-quarter goblin," I remarked. "And Hagrid--his line is as   
pureblooded as they come, for all his mother's a giant."

He flashed me a grin. "And Fleur Delacour was part veela. I expect you're part   
vampire." 

I smirked. "Well tried, Apprentice Potter. I shan't deny that I'm not fully   
human--but then, neither are you. Your line has a fair amount of vampire crosses,   
actually; it's where you get those pretty green eyes."

He flushed, but protested, "I got my eyes from my mother."

"So you did," I said, and I turned on my heel and went to visit Minerva. Hah. Let   
him chew on *that* for a few days; it would keep him busy.

* * *

We had collected and bound with yarrow enough blood resin to make an attempt at   
strengthening Investigo; Voldemort continued to evade the Aurors, and Jessica   
Parkinson reported that Draco Malfoy had been in touch with her sister twice   
weekly until three weeks ago, when all communication ceased. My Muggle contact,   
Jack Mayhew, had also come up empty.

I painted the resin onto my apprentice with careful fingers. For the intensifier   
to work, it must be done properly: over the eyes, into the hollow of the throat, a   
handprint over the heart. Over the curse scar on his forehead, on the palms of   
both hands--and his fingers closed on mine, his eyes snapping open. "Reperio!"

The spell ripped through me like a storm, and the world shuddered and fell apart.

When it reformed, we were not in our rooms. My hands burned from the resin; my   
Mark set my left arm on fire. I knew this, and yet I was not there, not in my   
chambers with Potter's hands in mine, not in my body. "Where are we?" Potter said,   
and I glanced out of the dingy window. It looked out onto the edge of a sign I   
would know anywhere. 

Knockturn Alley, in the room above The Hanged Manticore. I had lived here once,   
shortly after my family died.

Something moved behind me, and I spun around.

Voldemort.

His long snake's tongue flicked out, and he swung his head to and fro blindly.   
"Snape," he said. "I can smell you. Where are you?" He spun around, searching   
for me, tasting the air. "Traitor. You cannot hide."

A heartbeat pounded against my ears, off to the left--Voldemort swung towards it,   
and Draco Malfoy sat in the corner of the room, wrists and ankles tied. "Where is   
he?" Voldemort said. "Where is Snape?"

Draco raised his head from his knees. An ugly bruise marred one cheek, and his   
lower lip was split. "Hogwarts," he said. "With Potter." His mouth moved again,   
but no sound emerged. 

"Back," I hissed, "Back, Potter, stop the spell--"

And we were standing in our chambers. The blood resin had burnt off, leaving   
blisters on his skin and mine; there was also a long raw burn running the entire   
length of my left arm. Potter collapsed against me, and I held him with one arm   
while I threw Floo powder into the fireplace. "Infirmary." 

I left Potter in Poppy's capable hands and went to Albus. He was sitting with   
Albion and Minerva, and I knew what a sight I was--burnt and stained and wild.   
"Draco," I said, "prisoner. Of Voldemort. At The Hanged Manticore."

Minerva and Albion were gone almost as soon as I got the words out; Albus's arms   
closed around me. "Infirmary," I said, into his beard. "Harry's hurt. Blood   
resin--"

"Ssh," he said, and then the world went black.


	11. The Dark Tree Bears Bitter Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape, Draco, and why they're not the same - and why they are.

I woke in the infirmary; I had only been out for less than a day. Better than I   
had expected, given how I had felt. The burns on my left arm and my hands had   
been healed, and Poppy smiled as I climbed out of bed. She knew better than to   
try to keep me there. "Potter?" I asked.

"Still asleep, but he'll be fine."

"Malfoy? Voldemort?"

"Voldemort escaped us," said Albus, from the doorway. "Young Mr. Malfoy is at St.   
Mungo's. He has been asking to see you." He held out clean robes - soft, grey,   
not mine, but better than the infirmary-issued pajamas I was wearing.

I took the robes and stripped out of the pajamas. "How is he?"

Albus frowned, an expression which did not sit well on his idiotically genial   
face. "He is...not well."

I shrugged to settle the robes over my shoulders and brushed back my hair. "How   
'not well'?"

"I believe he's dying."

I froze, remembering for a moment the pretty, petty, smirking child I had first   
met as an infant; I remembered the talented--still petty--wizard he'd grown into.   
In my House. Under my hand and eye. "Death takes all of us, in the end, Albus.   
Voldemort promises immortality but I have never seen him deliver it to any but   
himself."

Poppy made a muffled sound, behind me. I ignored her and went to my apprentice's   
bedside. He was sleeping easily, as if the infirmary bed were as familiar as his   
own. 

Given the amount of time he had spent in that bed as a student, it might well be.

"Watch him for me," I said. "I'll be back before long."

I headed for my rooms to bathe and change robes. A visit to St. Mungo's was in   
order.

* * *

A grave mediwitch conducted me down the long hallway to Draco's room. I looked at   
him through the window, seeing the ruins of the boy traced in bone and flesh. My   
triumph over Voldemort came at the cost of Draco's sanity, and that was another   
weight on my soul.

After a time, I slipped inside. "Mr. Malfoy," I said, but he made no answer. I   
took a seat on the narrow bed and held my tongue.

Perhaps five minutes later, he spoke. "I can't do it, sir."

"Do what, Mr. Malfoy?"

He looked down at his hands, pale and colourless against robes as white as my own.   
"I can't live in this world as Lucius Malfoy's son, and I can't forgive you for   
what you did."

"I have never asked for your forgiveness. I do not ever expect it."

"Then why are you here?"

I reached out and tilted his face up so that I could meet his eyes. "Hope, Mr.   
Malfoy. My last and most desperate weapon."

He hesitated, rubbed his hand over the Dark Mark on his left arm, the twin to my   
own. "I--did things. As a Death Eater. I've never understood why I'm not in   
Azkaban."

"I told them your father had used the Imperius curse on you."

He looked startled. "But--"

"It was little enough to give you a chance at life, Mr. Malfoy, after what I had   
done to you." I studied him for a long moment. "Draco," I said, finally, and he   
inhaled sharply, "Draco, my child, didn't you know? I have never stopped loving   
you."

His face shuttered, and he pulled away from me. "I *hate* you," he said. "When   
my master comes for me--"

I stood and loomed over him. He shrank, and I took his head in my hands, spread   
my fingers over the bones of his skull. "Do not imagine that my love for you will   
keep me from doing what is necessary, Mr. Malfoy," I said, sliding my hands down,   
thumbs tracing his jaw and his throat, pressing in on the frantic pulse under his   
skin. "Remember. I loved your father."

"*I* loved my father," he said, and his throat moved under my hands. "I still do.   
And you killed him."

I let him go. "Yes," I said. "I did. I trust you will remember that, when your   
master comes for you."

I turned to leave, and Draco made no move to stop me.

I left him there, shining palely in the dark of that room, alone with his dreams   
of his master.

* * * 

Back at Hogwarts, I stopped to look in on my apprentice, but Poppy caught me at   
the door and told me Black was there. I decided to take the opportunity to speak   
to Albus about Draco.

He was in his office, and smiled as I came in. He had a cup of tea already   
prepared for me--damn his eyes. I stood before the fire and cradled the cup, the   
china fragile in my hand, and told him what I had seen of Draco. He said nothing   
the entire time, and finally I set my cup down and laced my fingers together.   
"Albus. Tell me. Was I ever like that?"

He looked at me steadily. "No," he said, after a time. "No. You were always   
proud."

"Hah." I turned my face to the wall; studied a tapestry there. "Draco will never   
be whole again. I trapped him between loyalty to me and love for his father.   
Love for Voldemort, perhaps. He could not choose between us, and it destroyed   
him."

From behind me, Albus said, "Twenty years ago, I knew another boy trapped between   
opposing forces. He stood before me, in this office." His hand tangled in my   
hair, rested against the nape of my neck. Once, he had been taller than I; now he   
had to reach up to me. Now, his skin was soft and papery with age. He drew me   
after him to the cabinet where he kept his Pensieve. "Severus."

I brushed my fingers over the silvery surface, and found myself looking at the   
young man I had been, holding out my left arm to Albus Dumbledore. He took my--my   
younger self's--arm and touched the Mark.

Watching, I pressed my left arm close to my body.

"Why are you here?" Dumbledore said. "I can't imagine that your master would want   
you here."

"It could be a trap," I answered, my voice still a boy's voice. "You'll want   
Veritaserum, old man."

He raised his brows. "I don't believe I shall. What do you want?"

"Lord Voldemort is planning the death of the Potters. All of them--James, his   
wife, his child."

"Ah."

My younger self raised his chin, as if expecting to be challenged. "I will not be   
party to James Potter's death. Do with me what you will."

He released my arm and touched my cheek. 

I remembered that caress, remembered how I had wanted to flinch away, remembered   
letting his hand land on me and how, shockingly, it had not hurt to have him be   
gentle with me.

The world jerked around me, and I was back in the now. Albus's hand remained on   
my neck, firm and solid--a welcome weight now, familiar and warm. "You, too, were   
caught," he said. "You loved your master, but you had your honor. You could not   
leave a life-debt unpaid." His fingers tightened. "I have never been so proud of   
you as in that moment, my dear boy. You were a vicious child, and you grew into a   
vicious man--but even vicious men, in the end, answer to their own conscience."

I closed my eyes. "I do not believe Draco Malfoy has a conscience. I believe--I   
believe I failed him, and you."

Albus released me with a pat on the shoulder. He walked around his desk and smiled   
at me, that infuriating, senile, happy smile. "Draco is not your fault. You were   
responsible only for giving him a choice, not for his inability to choose. Now.   
Young Mr. Potter is waiting for you in the infirmary; he wants to be off visiting   
his friends this summer, and I know you wish to see him before he leaves."

I hadn't intended to give Potter any liberty this summer, which Albus knew   
perfectly well. No sooner had I opened my mouth to protest than I found myself   
alone outside the office, the door closed tight behind me.

I do so hate it when he does that.

* * *

Sirius Black favored me with his usual glare when I entered the infirmary, but   
Potter sat upright. "Master!" He looked convalescent, his skin paler than usual,   
his scar blood-red.

"Apprentice Potter," I said. "Recovering, I trust."

"Yes."

I lifted his hair from the scar and frowned, wondering if it burned as did my   
Mark. I could still feel the aftereffects of Investigo in my muscles; my skin   
felt raw. He brushed my hand away impatiently. "Master, I wanted to ask you--"

I held up my hand, and he bit his tongue. I considered drawing this out, but I   
did not have the energy. "Take two weeks," I said, "to ensure you recover fully.   
You may spend the time as you choose, but avoid strenuous magic."

He smiled. "Thank you, Master."

I tapped one finger against my forearm. "Do not thank *me*, Mr. Potter. The   
Headmaster gave me little choice."

Black twitched, and I bared my teeth at him.

"At any rate," I said, returning my attention to my apprentice, "your first year   
has been less of a disaster than I originally anticipated. When you return, we   
will revise the curriculum for your second year."

Before he could answer, I turned on my heel and left the infirmary.

The walk to my quarters seemed to take an eternity, but that was nothing compared   
to the agony of reaching them. The outer rooms looked normal enough, but my   
bedroom opened, not on my familiar dark furniture, but on white-painted wood and   
frilly pink floral pillows, piled high on a canopied bed. Albus's doing, no   
doubt. Exhausted, I decided to deal with the state of the room in the morning. I   
had two weeks to devise new tortures for my apprentice, after all - the loss of a   
morning mattered little. I rid the bed of the worst of the pillows and collapsed   
into it.

My last coherent thought before sleep was that one of these days I was going to   
poison Albus Dumbledore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adskjadsk;lj OK LOOK i could NOT HAVE KNOWN when I WROTE IT


End file.
